


Out of the Dark

by franciskerst



Category: The Professionals
Genre: First Meeting, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-26
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-19 15:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/574711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/franciskerst/pseuds/franciskerst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, before everything started...when CI5 was just a glimpse in Cowley's eye, an improbable meeting between the former MI5 officer and a lost soldier of an obscure African war is going to change both men's life for ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First meeting

  
**Prologue:**

  
He looked so young. Major George Cowley bent over the hospital bed where the boy was lying, still unconscious after the surgery. Freshly shaved and cleaned, eyes closed on some peaceful dream, he had nothing in common any more with the human wretch Cowley had rescued from the rebels’ jail two days ago. He had not noticed then the form on the cot, in the darkest corner of the room, and could have missed him completely if it had not been for the sound of raspy breathing coming from that area and the weary gesture of MacLaren pointing to his cell mate.

Then he had seen the man; more a boy than a man, in spite of the nascent beard shadowing his face. He had taken a moment to consider the lean, athletic body spread very still and defenceless in front of him. Save for a dirty rag loosely wrapped around the hips and a blood soaked band circling his head, he was naked. There also was a nasty machete wound left untended, hardly closed up, festering on his right shoulder. The rest of the exposed flesh was covered in bruises, more markedly on belly and flanks.

A life long experience of pain, his or others', had hardened him against such emotions; yet, he had not been able to suppress a pang of compassion. Suddenly the young man had opened his eyes and he had met the shock of a deep blue gaze staring at him interrogatively.

Questioned, he had uttered his name with a sort of honest pride: “Bodie, Sir”. The voice was pleasant, undoubtedly English and steadier than could be expected from his apparent condition.

And now, George Cowley was at his bedside again, not in a grim bush camp barrack, but in a clear, white, impeccably clean hospital room. It was a testimony of the growing political influence of his mentor that he had managed within two days, to arrange a medical repatriation and an admission to a London military hospital, not only for his own man, but for this stranger too.

MacLaren was out, for some examination or other. He was alone with the boy, waiting for him to awaken and wondering what he was going to do with him after his medical release. A brief inquiry, based on the sparse information given by the man had not uncovered any family or personal records. He knew nothing definite about this man, not even his name.

“Bodie”, if that was his name, was still asleep and breathing evenly, happily unaware of the surrounding world. Cowley let his gaze wander over the male figure, roughly defined by a thin blanket: Tall, wide shouldered, well muscled though slim, he must have been perfectly fit and trained before he had been wounded and captured. A fine soldier, really.

Major George Cowley liked fine soldiers. And it did no harm when they were good looking too. As for this one, he could easily be called beautiful with his regular features (apart from a funny, slightly snub nose) and these absurdly long lashes which almost reached the high cheekbones.

He shook his head, angry with himself; handsome soldiers and beautiful boys were not a healthy daydream topic for a man in his position.

As if in answer to his thoughts, the thickly fringed eyelids lifted and Cowley was caught again... diving in deep marine blue... Stop! He cringed inwardly; deep marine blue pits, indeed! Last time he had fallen for such nonsense, he was still at boarding school. The man was decidedly dangerous, and not only for his fighting skills.

At the moment this dangerous man was smiling at him, not remotely shy, and his deep blue eyes looked still deeper and bluer.

“You recognize me?”

The smile broadened. “Of course I recognize you! Your face was the most beautiful thing I had seen in ages.”

“What do you mean?” asked Cowley, a little taken aback.

“It was an honest Englishman's face.”

“I am a Scot,” Cowley retorted sternly. If he was stung, it didn't show.

“Oh, yes,” said the young man with indifference, “just a manner of speaking, you know... among all these dark, unfriendly faces; it was like coming home at last... ”

“You are home now. What are your plans for the future?”

A shadow veiled the handsome face. “Future? I haven’t thought about it.”

“You have to. What age are you?”

“I’ll be twenty four this July, end of July,” he added with playfulness, “I'm a Lion, you see... ”

“Come on, man,” Cowley snapped, “We are talking seriously. What do you intend to do after you have been released?”

The young man shrugged, then winced: “Ouch! Damned shoulder!” He looked up at the ceiling. “Don't know, really... Anything I find, providing it's reasonably paid. There’s a lot of things I can do.” He smiled. “I happen to have worked in some strange places... such as Le Pompon Rouge, in Tangier; it was supposed to be a sailor's home.” He smirked. “It was more a male brothel than anything else, to tell the truth.”

Cowley was shocked and surprised to be so. “Save this tale for someone else; I'm not interested in your dirty little secrets.”

Bodie was unfazed. “I was only the bouncer.”

“What a waste,” thought Cowley in a totally illogical way. He didn't voice his feelings but they probably showed on his face, for the young man laughed frankly.

“I was very popular there. Sometimes I regret I didn't take more advantage of the situation: there were quite a few big-wigs among the regulars, you know.”

Cowley knew, or rather remembered. Yes, and we had our eye on them, as did the French, and the Soviets as well. But he kept these reflections to himself. It reminded him he had to check the man's past and background before he could offer him a job. The idea struck him by its incongruity: why should he propose anything to a total stranger, whose kinship was unknown, previous history murky and personal character dubious? It was as if he was looking for a good reason to keep in touch with the lad.

No, he decided; there were good reasons enough: On the plane, he had had time to read MacLaren's reports about the insurgency and Bodie's part in it. The man was smart, undoubtedly: a born warrior, a natural leader and, more importantly, he had a reputation for perfect loyalty towards his chosen masters. Properly handled, he could become a precious asset to one or another of the British Special Forces. In the future at least - not now. He had to be tested and prepared carefully. Well, he had to heal up first. His present condition was far from bright.

Cowley got right back to the point. “Have you got any financial resources at your disposal?”

Bodie raised a single circumflex-shaped eyebrow: “How could I? You found me naked in the middle of the bush, remember?”

“Don't tell me you work for free!”

“Well, I didn't get the premium for this last mission, but I don't want to complain; I have money enough, just not in England.”

“I hope I can manage to find you a place in a military convalescent home, where you could stay for about a month, two at the most. After that, you'll have to be on your own.”

It was more than Bodie would have figured in his most optimistic speculations. “Why would you do that for me?”

God knows why, thought Cowley, Or the devil, but I don't. He pulled a sour face: “Do you expect me to throw you naked and penniless onto the London streets?”

Bodie couldn't help trying to push his advantage. “I will be naked and penniless when I get out of your rest home.”

“Oh, I have no doubt you are quite able to find a few odd jobs before retrieving your hidden loot.” He let out the last dart: “There is no shortage of places of debauchery in London; they employ bouncers too, you know.”

  
 

 

  **Chapter One:**

 

Cowley was driving much too fast on the secondary road leading to Repton. He was still gritting his teeth at the fresh memory of Foulques and Barnshaw looking down at him in the Minister’s office (And to think they were not even the head of their respective services! Both had sent their second in command). A few last points to fix about the necessary cooperation between all the Intelligence Services and Special Forces, maybe up to some coordination of their action whenever the superior interests of the State would command... Cowley had easily translated as "how can we manage to keep things under control with a new player in the game and particularly this stubborn, impetuous, disrespectful Scotsman in charge?"

Actually, there was no real prospect of setting any formal connections between MI5 and MI6. The two old intelligence services remained firmly rooted in their tacit “non-ingerence” agreement. The only point in discussion was to decide whether the projected new organisation would get any independence at all or be submitted to a double tutelage. Cowley had counted on the Minister’s support and had not been disappointed. The Home Secretary, fortunately, had been won to this cause for some time now, by Cowley’s political protector who was reputed to have the PM’s ear. Besides, he was not personally on the best of terms with either Foulques or Barnshaw, though he was bound to handle them carefully as long as he had no good reason to get them fired. Cowley himself had had both men as colleague or senior officer during his previous career in the Services and didn’t want to turn them into declared enemies at the very start of his great enterprise, which was even yet not precisely defined. He has just been freed from MI5 a couple of weeks ago, to become the special Minister's advisor in matters of inner security and terrorism. MacLaren's rescue had been his last mission with but not for MI5 and, in a way, could pass for a sort of personal favour since the lad was the son of a distant relative, Yet the implied offence was hard to ignore and it chafed.

So he was still fuming while tearing along at full speed on a particularly bumpy country road. Repton was isolated and not meant to be found on the ordinary maps of the region. Actually it was one of the most guarded and secret places in the country. Under the banal denomination of “medical rest house” a more disquieting and less acknowledgeable reality was hidden.

Not acknowledgeable but necessary thought Cowley while proffering his credentials to the guard at the gate. He felt disturbingly uncertain regarding the whole issue and angry at himself for being so. There was no question that he had a right to know who and what was the man to whom he has offered his protection while still being accountable to MI5, and that he couldn't deny this information from his former employer. Moreover he had decided to pierce through the many layers of secret which surrounded the young man's past and personality himself. He was counting for that on the skills and experience of Repton's specialists: Psychiatrists, Psychologists, Psychoanalysts, whatever “Psy” they called themselves, they were the best at this, and it was not the first time he had to rely on them for extracting the truth out of unconscious or refractory individuals. And refractory, Bodie was, that was for sure, in spite of his jolly, easy-going attitude.

MacLaren's report was not very informative about Bodie's previous occupations, the merc' appearing to have been exceptionally wary towards his cell-mate (had he smelled a spy? Smart boy!); there was just a hint about a gun-running business and it was based upon the declarations of one of the insurgents, after his capture, not Bodie's confidences.

”So, how’s the lad?”

”Pretty well. He’s improving every day, within hours, I’d say. Oh, he seems to be the resilient type, this boy, almost too lively and energetic sometimes.” Affable and smiling, Dr Martin Harrington was a model of prudent evasiveness. Cowley cut him short...

“Can I have a talk with him?”

“Hmm... ” A second of hesitation. A shadow of embarrassment on the jolly face, “hmm, yes, I suppose... as soon as your colleagues are finished... ”

“My colleagues?” Cowley asked sharply.

”Well, these gentlemen from MI6, you know... ”

Cowley had had no regular link with MI6 since war time. The presence of his MI5 contact wouldn’t have been surprising though he thought he had made it clear he wanted to be the only one to deal with this case and to carry out the interrogation. But MI6? What were they here for?

He had not long to wait for an answer: two men entered the room, of which one at least was known of him, and not for the best: Willis, Foulques’ assistant, shadow-man and master of dirty tricks. The other was the average, nondescript, Whitehall civil servant.

“You already know Willis, I assume? This is Horton; he’s in charge of the interrogation process.”

“That’s my own personal responsibility,” Cowley said stiffly, “I have all the necessary permission.”

“It is?” Willis was not easily taken aback.

“From Philip Barnshaw, for starters, and he takes his orders from a higher place, as you know perfectly well.”

A higher place indeed. There was no need at this point to mention Cowley’s personal connection to the PM himself.

Willis was unfazed. “MI5 has no competence in that matter, it’s all under my department’s jurisdiction.”

“How come?” There was, of course the fact that the man had been found on foreign soil and was fighting as a mercenary, to support an insurgency the Western Powers didn’t want to acknowledge openly. But still?

“This is a case of international terrorism.” Willis looked very satisfied with the effect of his announcement. “There’s a strong suspicion this guy has been involved in an illegal arms deal with the Palestinian ‘Liberation Front’ through Jordan.”

Cowley frowned. This was something he couldn’t ignore, or deny the jurisdiction of MI6 upon. Inwardly he blamed himself for sloppy research. How thoughtless of him! Very uncharacteristic. Since when was he disarmed by a young scoundrel’s good looks?

“How did you find out?”

Willis smiled with unhidden pleasure. “Come on, George, you must know we have our informers everywhere, even inside the so-called ‘Fronts of Liberation’.”

_Go to hell with your ‘George’, Willis, do I call you Edmond?_

“Yes, and there is nothing like a thick wad of her Majesty’s pictures to open the heart and memory of the staunchest patriot,” Cowley commented acidly.

“Well, not everybody has your steadfast integrity, George.” In spite of the apparent irony, the unwilling tone of respect in Willis’ voice was unmistakeable. For the shortest while, the man looked surprised and almost ashamed of his admission.

Cowley seized his advantage. ”I want to be part in the procedure. And to get the reports.”

His opponent had recovered his composure. “Why? It’s not MI5’s business. And you are not even with MI5 any more.”

So, this was the moment to lay down his master card. “You know with whom I am now, Willis. He likes to be informed directly. And more so if there is the least risk of putting the Government in a false position with the Israelis. (And by my own fault, he thought bitterly, that’s precisely what I did by giving my protection to the young rascal while I was still linked to MI5).

The other man was visibly hesitating. “And,” Cowley added with some reluctance, “I can help. I saved the boy’s life; he trusts me.”

“That’s right,” Horton spoke for the first time, “We need all the help we can get. Up to now our results have been about nil.” He turned to Cowley. “The suspect is especially contrary-minded, even under heavy psycho-active medication.”

“You drugged him!” Cowley didn’t know why he felt angry. He had done the same many times.

“Not before everything else – apart from bodily harm - had been tried,” protested Horton, “He is able to retreat deep inside and get out of reach at will. The chemicals make him confused and uncoordinated, but not more talkative, whatever the stuff I use; I never saw such resistance.” There was a hint of admiration in Horton’s tone.

“I want to see him,” said Cowley.

“He’s not in any condition to take another interrogation now.” Horton protested.

“I see no objection.” Harrington hastily replied to the three others’ surprise. He looked ill at ease, perhaps wishing not to appear to be taking sides and yet unable to confront Cowley’s claim of authority. Or maybe was he aware that Cowley wielded more power than he showed?

“I don’t intend to interrogate him,” Cowley pursued, “I just want to see him. Now. Alone.”

“As you like,” Willis’ tone was indifferent. “As long as you share with us any bit of information you can come across. Don’t forget the interests at stake.” He turned to Harrington. “We’ll be here again tomorrow morning for another session.”

 

Cowley stayed by the door for a short while, scanning the surroundings. The ward nurse to whom he had presented his security badge had returned to his desk, midway in the corridor, and was monitoring the rooms through a large electronic board that displayed a dozen small screens. The man, stoutly built and morose faced, glanced at him and pushed a button; the steel door slid open to a windowless, sparsely furnished bedroom.

For the first time since his only visit to the London hospital, he stood in front of the man. No, the boy, made still more boyish-looking by his blue and white striped pyjamas and his ultra-short hair trim. Too short. Cowley frowned and took a step forward, to have a better look on the dark head sunk in the pillow. The hair looked moth-eaten in places. Shaven! They had shaved his hair around the frontal lobes and other significant areas.

Mouth dry, Cowley proffered his hand, brushing against one thick eyebrow, and lightly rubbed the bare spots. He licked his finger: gooey and sharp, with a metallic under-flavour. He went closer and bent over the raised bed-head. Almost unconsciously he stroked again the boy’s brow and temples. They were damp, shining with a thin, unhealthy sweat.

The young face, much paler than he remembered but less gaunt, was half-turned to him, eyes closed; the skin briefly shivered under the caress and the funny long lashes fluttered against his palm before the lids opened to an absent stare. Cowley held his breath. Where had the intent, deep ultra-marine gaze gone? Drowned into twin black holes that had engulfed its light and life.

“How do you feel, laddie?” It wasn’t uttered loudly but the sound of his voice, imperceptibly shaky and strangely thick, arising in the unnatural surrounding silence, almost made him wince. Padded walls, he noticed belatedly.

The dark, misty pupils eventually focused on him. “Who… who are you?”

Startled, Cowley stepped back. From this new angle, he had a better view of the upper part of the man’s body, his heaving chest, his left arm stretched out, partly dangling from over the bed’s safety railing, his hand, his wrist… The look of his wrist made Cowley cringe. There, unmistakably, was a bruised circle.

Dr Harrington would have better have a good explanation to give. Cowley gathered all the inner calm he was capable of and got closer again. He laid a steadying palm on the boy’s slightly quivering hand. “Don’t be afraid, laddie. It’s me. Cowley. George Cowley.”

The boy stared at him, in evident confusion. “I don’t know you. Never seen you.” He withdrew his hand from the other man’s grip and shut his eyes, visibly exhausted.

“You don’t remember me? No memories at all? From Africa? From the London hospital?”

The young man shook his head. “No.”

Cowley considered the problem for a little while. “What do you remember? Before this moment?”

“I… I was in another room. With three men. They asked me questions.” He was speaking too fast, stumbling on his words. “I couldn’t answer them.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t push you. Just relax and think. Do you remember being brought to this place?”

The kid’s effort to concentrate was painful to see. “No.”

Cowley’s voice sounded exaggeratedly mellow to his own ears. “Listen. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know the people who brought you here. You don’t know what you have done before. Do you know who you are?”

“Yes!” was the swift reply, “I am Bodie.”

“Bodie what?”

“Just Bodie.”

This, at least, was something he could recognize. His mind leaped back to the time (was it only two weeks ago?) when they had first met in that gloomy bush shack. The lad was then wounded, severely beaten, starving, filthy, feverish, almost dying but oh, so much livelier than the sad wretch of a man he had in front of him now. An awkward feeling, which he thought had been forcefully ripped from him ages ago, was palpitating in his guts again. This is your work, George Cowley.

But who is Bodie? Wasn’t that the question from the beginning? Even for the guy himself, perhaps. He recalled the outcome of his half-aborted research into the man’s past: sailor, mercenary, arms dealer, possibly deserter, all in a limited span of time, given his age. The resulting picture was that of a fugitive, a man on the run.

He bent over the bed and plunged into the black pupils’ void, as dim as a starless night, wondering whether this desolate emptiness wasn’t the final haven, the end of the road for the breathless runner. And then, at this very point, Cowley changed his mind.

Never until now, in a life devoted to the service of public interest, had he given precedence to compassion on duty; nor had he ever contemplated getting in the way of an enquiry he had himself started to gain intelligence in matters of international terrorism. He pondered. In a way, if he thought further, he wasn’t changing his mind, actually. Bringing Bodie to this place was his doing. Handing him to the Repton specialists was his idea. But carrying out the interrogation himself had been his will. And still was.

He put a comforting hand on the youth’s shoulder. “Bodie, do you want to recover your memory?”

The answer was long in coming. “I… not sure…” There were hints of anguish and wariness in the faltering words.

“What do you want, Bodie?”

A quick reply this time: “Get out, I want to get out!”

“You will. I promise you, you will. Do you trust me, Bodie?”

Silence. And yes, why should he trust him? Cowley sighed. Not before having voiced the promise aloud had he realised how much he wanted to see the lad out from those walls, wholesome, and free.

 

   
There never will be a next session, Cowley swore to himself fervently, while driving less recklessly than he had indulged in before on his way to Repton, because Bodie was lying asleep in the rear seat of the car. Under powerful tranquillisers; for the last time, he hoped.

The talk with Harrington had been easier, or at least less awkward than he had first feared. The Head of Repton was primarily a physician, after all, still young, at the start of a very promising carreer, with stellar academic records and a hitherto immaculate reputation; recently promoted to this post, of which he seemed not to have measured all the implications fully, he must have bitterly resented being forced to break his Hippocratic oath so patently (the Repton methods, though somehow irregular in their aim at efficiency, were usually more subtle). In their earlier meeting, Cowley had perceived the man’s desire to be relieved from both his moral and statutory responsibility. The first goal was easy to reach; the second much less so.

Eventually, and to his own surprise, he had managed to slip through the net of bureaucratic regulations without having to make a phone call to the Home Office, which could have been a little tricky given his current, still not well defined, position and the indisputably “foreign” nature of the case. His credentials as the Minister’s special advisor, joined to his natural authority, had been enough, thanks God. All due reports could be postponed. He had time to polish up his argument, the rationales of which were getting clearer in his mind as he was thinking about them: The Repton team, like the MI6 interrogators, had failed in their attempts to break the suspect’s resistance and their methods, had they been allowed to continue, could even have ended in damaging the man’s brain irremediably, so he had seized the last chance to salvage the situation by using his personal influence on the man. Yes, that was the best line of defence.

“Defence”. The word and the notion cut deep into Cowley’s unusually wavering stream of consciousness. His left hand hit the wheel and the car swivered. “Defence”! He cursed inwardly. Why should have he to seek for a defence? How could he have put himself in such a false position at the very time he was on the point of achieving a life-long project of national importance, an undertaking that should prevail over any personal feeling or interest? To those vital questions there was no answer. Or, rather, he realised bitterly, the only true answer was one he couldn’t accept; it was absurd, and dangerous, and humiliating.

Meanwhile, the – not so innocent – living cause of his turmoil was soundly asleep behind. Soon he’d have to feed him, to shelter him and, summing it up, take care of him wholly.

Cowley sighed and took the road up North, direction: Scotland.

The journey ahead was long. He had time to think. Maybe too much time for his peace of mind. He had to admit that he had taken his decision on the spur of the moment, something very out of character for him, and worse, at the least suitable time. Though…perhaps not: to see things from another perspective, he now had more freedom and more free time than he ever had in all the course of his career; to be in between two official positions had its perks: months of delayed vacations to take if he wanted to, no one to be directly accountable to, except two politicians who trusted him while not liking his current adversaries too much (though bound to show them some consideration)…Yes, the situation wasn’t as dire as he had first feared. So why did he feel so bleak inside? Blast it! Had he suddenly turned into a sentimental old weakling?

Notwithstanding, he had a task to fulfil and needed a convenient place for that purpose. The family house in Drymen, north of Glasgow, he had discarded at once. Whatever might happen during the interrogation process, having his older sister as witness would certainly be the most improper thing he could figure. The obvious choice was Angus’ place in Aberfoyle; his cousin was always disposed to lend him the little lodge by the loch. He had often used it, alone or with a friend, during the fishing season. It was quiet, remote from the village, hidden by the hill and the woods from all viewers: perfect!

Somehow appeased by this prospect, he put on speed. The purpose of a successful interrogation was the only justifiable excuse for his transgressions. And he was resolute to achieve it. At any price.

 

 


	2. Deal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cowley's trip to Scotland is no vacation.

 

He had reached the fringes of the Lake District and it was late in the afternoon when his passenger awoke. It was just this faint, rattling noise of the door handle unfastening cautiously that had alerted him. He pulled over and turned his head round.

“Don’t make any foolish moves, laddie. All the doors are locked and you’ve nothing to fear from me, anyway.” He got no answer. He went on. “You are not in the power of the MI6 mob any more; don’t worry. I won’t harm you. I can help you if you allow me to.”

The boy kept silent for a long while. Then: “I want to get out.” The voice was curiously blank and subdued. Cowley sighed. “I promised you would. But we have things to set right first.” It wasn’t the time or the place to elaborate. He felt compelled to speak slowly and softly, as with a mildly backward child. He smiled, reassuringly. “And the first thing to fix is food. Aren’t you hungry?”

“No,” was the not very cooperative answer.

“Well, I am.” His lunch was getting old and had been pretty light anyway. But the drugs that were meddling with Bodie’s brain and nerves seemed to have had a negative effect on his appetite. Unless the lad was just trying to be contradictory. Cowley’s inner voice was telling him that in his present condition he wasn’t to be trusted, neither to be left alone in the car, nor to be taken to a public place. That was going to be a problem. And he loathed thinking of the solution to this problem. Except he had no choice.

They had just passed a village and the road was bordering a not too large but thick beech wood. Cowley drove the car in a dirt lane and parked in a sort of narrow path. The spot was remote and dark. With luck, nobody would notice the car from the road or hear… anything suspicious. He opened the glove compartment, blessing the darkness.

“I’ve got cheese biscuits. Would you like some?”

Bodie didn’t answer but proffered his hand, thoughtlessly. With the swiftest of moves, Cowley slipped one manacle around the young man’s wrist and, in a split second, he had fastened the other to the steering wheel. Boy! You must be very low to be caught by the oldest trick in the book.

In a flash of belated insight, Cowley realised his mistake when he saw, coming towards him with terrific might and speed, a huge fist propelled by a strong muscular arm, which missed his neck by a hair’s breadth and landed on the dashboard, smashing the speedometer dial. The vision of his companion’s face contorted with rage and despair was enough to scare any man less prepared for dire situations than George Cowley. As fast as a bolt, he had opened the door and jumped outside.

“Sorry, lad, I can’t let you destroy this car.” Now he really had no choice. This madman was attempting to tear out the wheel from its frame. He had to stop him, and the best means for that purpose, he had it at hand, in the inner pocket of his jacket: something he had mutely sworn he would never use when Harrington had given it to him with his last, well-meaning recommendations about the way to deal with this difficult patient and his furious fits of violence.

Half bent as he was over the front seat, Bodie offered an easy target. A perfectly applied karate chop had him knocked out flat on the wheel. Then, the needle in the neck muscles to finish the job. The powerful drug would provide four hours of sleep at least. No need for manacles now. His soundly sleeping passenger would retrieve his former position on the rear seats, and he himself was now free to leave the car to make a few necessary purchases and phone calls. The risk of some idle stroller intruding was quite negligible. The negative point being of course that he couldn’t drive.

He wasn’t far from the village, hardly more than a ten minute walk by a short-cut through the fields; but the ground of the lane was uneven, muddy and covered with slippery weeds. He limped his way downhill to a grocery he had spotted beforehand while driving and was relieved to see that the small, all-purpose shop was still open though its owner was obviously on the point of putting down the shutters.

“You are lucky,” he grumbled, “that this ass Frankie was so late with his delivery. What do you want at this ungodly hour?”

The mentioned delivery displayed a large stack of Ryvita crisp bread and sliced soft bread, still in their cardboard boxes. Cowley took two packs of each, a sack of potatoes, some apples and bananas, sliced ham and bacon in convenient quantity, and two dozen eggs (he was certain the stock of tinned food left in the cabin last time he was there would be quite sufficient for at least two weeks); eventually he also bought a small flask of motor oil, which was of no use to him but could explain the presence of a formally dressed stranger without a car wandering around the country-side at eight in the evening.

“Trouble with your car?” asked the man who, actually, did look a little curious.

“Just an oil leak; saw it too late,” replied Cowley briefly; “Needs a repair but that must wait till my arrival.”

“Take this bag,” proposed the seller amiably; “it’s stronger; the potatoes are no light weight: about a stone, and it’s my smallest package. I hope you are not parked too far away.”

“No, thanks; I stopped near the beech wood.” (No sense lying about that).

“Well, it’s not next door. Watch out: yesterday’s downpour has left a lot of mud on the road.”

How true. Twenty minutes later he was testing the veracity of this assertion, as he was striving for his balance while painfully walking back to his car, uphill. The winding road was less steep than the short-cut but much longer and almost as slippery. Fortunately the loose hemp bag given to him by the shopkeeper was of the kind you can hang on your shoulder; he wondered if he would have been able to carry it by hand otherwise. He cursed in turn himself, Bodie and the British road maintenance. Only the grim prospect of having to live two weeks on canned food, and the growing certainty he’d have to stick to Bodie like a tick to a dog as soon as the boy woke had brought him to buy the potatoes and the fruit, not to mention twenty four breakable fresh eggs.

He had managed to get his cousin on the phone. The phone box smelled of cat piss and the receiver looked damaged, but it worked. He hadn’t tried to tell tales. Angus was a retired Navy officer and had spent his post-war years in the Services. He was well informed about Cowley’s occupations and more than willing to help, without asking too many questions. However there was no way he could stay hiding, undiscovered, at his cousin’s place more than 48 hours, and cheating the authorities would be disastrous in his position, anyway. He had to be open with them. The talk with the Home Secretary, shortly following another one, more important, with his political mentor by the PM, had been trickier to negotiate, but he had succeeded in winning both their backing. Bodie could be an invaluable source of information about the Palestinian support networks and it was of prime importance to prevent the MI6 spooks from botching the case.

Besides, it was the honest truth. At least that was what Cowley wanted to believe. And if he was able to convince himself, there was a good chance that he could convince anybody else.

  
The way back was a nightmare. Limping more and more heavily, staggering and slipping at almost every step, he reached his car at last and slumped in the driver’s seat. A quickly made ham sandwich and a can of light beer helped him to recover somehow. He made a gesture to the flask of whisky and held it back with a groan. He had still nigh on two hundred miles to drive before he could indulge his alcohol craving safely.

Bodie was still as stone. Cowley checked his breathing and pulse, and was relieved. The blow to the head and the drugging didn’t seem to have done any grievous harm to the man, as far as he could tell. Young and healthy as he was… Cowley’s thoughts were drifting back to a time when he had got through even direr plights himself, got through pain, loss and treason, licked his wounds, and healed. But had he healed? A lame leg and a distrustful mind were not the only consequences, nor the worse. What the hell! He refocused on the job at hand and drove off. The lad would pull through, no doubt.

The rest of the journey was remarkably uneventful, although neither quiet nor peaceful. After half-an-hour of unnatural calm, Bodie had started moaning and stirring feverishly in his sleep. This was not only slightly irritating but also, in some manner, predictive of the upcoming difficulty of the situation. Cowley strove hard to keep his thoughts strictly professional. First he had to regain the boy's trust. That was a prerequisite to anything he would attempt to help him retrieve his memory. Without trust, nothing could possibly work. Especially if he had to cheat him again, he commented to himself with a bitter irony that, in his case, was not so much a mark of cynicism than mere experience-born lucidity. Yet, it still depressed him sometimes. And this time more than ever.

He began to feel better long before he had reached Glasgow: Appeased, breathing fully, more alive, more himself in a way (his streak of English blood – from Cotswolds wool merchants who had settled in Glasgow centuries ago – had been so diluted by repeated Scottish matrimonies that only his family name still reminded him of it). Crossing the border of Scotland always had a soothing effect on him, even if the Lowlands, beyond the Southern Uplands, weren't so different from their English counterparts. Once on Scottish soil, it was strangely easy to forget or, at least to keep at a distance, London, the ever conflicting “services”, the Government's contradictory demands and his own burden of duties. This time however, he had brought his current “duty” with him. And this one wouldn't let himself be forgotten so easily...

Desirous for obvious reasons to avoid the most populated areas, he skirted Glasgow by North-East, leaving on his right the road to Kilsyth, where MacLaren's parents lived, and – turning off westwards, then North - headed for Drymen, hoping he would be spared the bad luck of being spotted by Frannie while driving through. Not very likely at this hour of the day. She should be riveted to her TV screen. Or playing cards with her bunch of old bats.

There was no real closeness between Cowley and his elder sister, just a sort of acrimonious familiarity. And yet, he couldn't count the number of times he had declined her invitations. The last time he had accepted (it was Christmas' eve and he was there mostly for their other relatives) she had tried to pair him with the daughter of a lady friend of hers, twenty years younger than him, and ugly as sin. He was still shuddering at the reminiscence.

Though, to be honest, he admitted to himself, had she been as pretty as a rosebud that it wouldn't have changed anything. Womanhood, he mused, was a strange territory, one to which he would always feel alien, so much so actually that, after two – fairly awkward - incursions therein, he'd preferred it to remain for him “Terra Incognita”.

The majestic prospect of Loch Lomond on his left with its huge expanse of water and its many islets, some of them man-made, everything in the surrounding space now tinted with unlikely shades of colour by the sunset (a not so common occurrence), tore him away from this perilous turn of mind. He pulled over, opened the windows and stayed there for a while, letting himself be washed over by the warm, soft glow of the fading light and the cool, enlivening sea breeze, welcoming them as if they were some secret blessings from the Land's spirit.

His (fairly pagan, he thought guiltily) meditation was cut off by a faint rustle from behind. He turned round. Damn! His passenger had awakened earlier than expected. He was sitting very upright and stiff, staring at him, expressionless.

“Bodie, you're awake? How do you feel?” he said, very gently. The man kept staring, not moving.

“Do you remember who I am?”

“No”, he looked bewildered.  
“George Cowley. I took you from the hospital; you asked me to. Don't you remember anything?”

“I remember you hitting me.”

“Well,” Cowley retorted, “I remember you hitting me first.” He omitted to recall the circumstances. “I couldn't let you wreck the car. You were very agitated. I had to calm you down.”

Smiling reassuringly, he bent forward fractionally, and the other man flung himself backwards, hands proffered in a clumsy gesture of defence. For a fleeting moment he looked like a scared rabbit. Nothing in him to remind of the lethal fighter of late. Then he slid back into his previous state of withdrawal. So, the drug was still working at some level. Fine for now.

“You've nothing to fear from me; I won't do you any harm.”

“You hit me.” the young man repeated with a sort of dumb stubbornness. He didn't mention the drugging or the manacles and Cowley thought wiser to leave that unclear.

“I'm sorry, Bodie, really sorry; but I couldn't do anything else.” He got no reaction and went on. “How do you feel? Any headache?”

He was beginning to be truly worried, actually, and the sincerity of his tone seemed to get at his companion.

“Yes – no,” he answered hesitantly, “I feel... strange. What... what happened?”

“You were held in this hospital, Repton, after I brought you home from Africa. You were on watch for a week, then interrogated by MI6 people. They treated you… roughly; you wanted out; you asked me to take you out and I promised you I would. I kept my word, as you can see.”

Cowley couldn't tell whether his explanation had been in any measure absorbed, or lost completely on the young man's foggy brain. Only mute distress and disorientation were showing on his handsome features. He was obviously still deeply confused. Confused but docile enough to accept being moved round to the front passenger seat without further question. Better to have him there than behind, though there was little he could do if the man happened to get berserk again. That was a risk to run. The whole thing had been a risk to run, as all in Cowley's life had always been.

 

 


	3. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A matter of trust

 

They both kept silent for most of their trip to Aberfoyle, across the flat land of the moss towards the hills of the Trossachs and the forest, as the darkness slowly reached in spite of a veiled moonlight piercing through the trees. They were in sight of the mountains when Bodie emerged from his stupor.

“Where are we? Where are you taking me?”

Cowley spoke staidly. “We're in the West of Scotland. And we're going to stay at my cousin's place near Aberfoyle for a while.”

“Why?”

“Well, to have a rest for a start, restore your health, work on your memory… I assume you want your memory back?”

Bodie's awareness was flickering like a candle in the wind. “I... don't know; I don't understand... what's going on? And what the hell am I doing with you?”

Cowley had to repeat patiently, with more details, his previous explanation. The tale of Bodie's rescue from an African jail, of his staying in Repton and his interrogation by the MI6 agents stirred little reaction from the young man. At least he seemed to apprehend some of it and get a rough draft of the whole picture. Slowly paddling out of his murky muddle...

“Why did you bring me with you?”

That was the difficult bit. “I'm in charge of you. Unofficially. There was a deal at the highest level: I offered to warrant for you so you could leave Repton.”

Pause. Bodie was pondering on the implications. “You mean... I have to stay with you?”

“I am afraid so, yes.”

Bodie's quirky eyebrow rose to an unprecedented height. “And what if I refuse?”

“There’s not much choice in this, Bodie.”

“I still can leave if I decide to.”

“Where to? With what money? Whose help?” He didn't add that he always had a gun on him and was known to be a very good shot. Besides, he had no intention of using it in those circumstances. Such a threat would have been a rather poor way of winning Bodie's confidence.

Not to say that such a design was well advanced at the moment; his statement had been met by a gloomy look and a sullen face. Bodie's pouting could be judged endearing in other contexts; in this one, it was simply menacing.

However, he was visibly returning to sanity and thus, able to perceive the odds and chances of his situation. In Cowley's mind, there was little doubt that the man had all the ability to manage an escape successfully within the narrowest window of opportunity but, hopefully, not in his current condition.

“Surely, you wouldn't wish to offer Willis and his bloodhounds an occasion to chase you throughout the country – with all their resources, acknowledged or not - and take you back to Repton?”

Bodie didn't reply but looked gloomier. Cowley persisted. “I told you, you’ve nothing to fear from me. So far, the only help you've had is mine and I'm willing to maintain it. Under a single condition, that is -”

“Why?” Bodie cut in.

“What?” Cowley's gaze shifted to a remote spot up the road. No hope that question wouldn't be asked.

“Why are you doing it? Why bother with all the trouble, taking charge, looking after me? I need to know.”

“Well, I could hardly leave a British national in captivity, while I was summoning all the British services abroad, official and unofficial, to help me rescue a relative of mine, young MacLaren, from his – from your common cell in this Katangese jail. A good man and a good agent by the way; you don’t remember MacLaren?”

“No.” Bodie's short reply was dismissive of any attempt at prevarication. Cowley sighed inwardly.

“After that, everything ensued quite naturally; you were wounded, you had to be attended to. It was simpler to put you in the same military hospital as your companion.”

“Repton?”

“No, the London military hospital; I saw you there once, when I went to visit my young cousin. We talked about your prospects for the near future.”

“Going to Repton?” (Sardonic you’d say. God, the boy was improving almost too quickly).

“No, your intention to go abroad to retrieve your savings.

“Savings?” Bodie said interrogatively, as if the notion didn't belong in his vocabulary. But he didn't let himself be distracted from his purpose.

“Why Repton?”

“I’m sorry about that but it wasn't my idea; I had no clout then to bar it. Wasn't even informed at first. (Not exactly the truth, not the entire truth). Seems you were quite disturbed at the time and the doctors in charge thought you needed a quiet place to rest and collect yourself.”

“In a loony bin, in the good care of the MI6 goons?” The quiet bitterness in the young man’s tone affected Cowley more than he would have thought or wished.

“It wasn't meant to be that way. Repton’s not only for mental patients, you know; it's basically a rest home.”

Bodie smirked. “Really? From the little I remember, one thing’s certain: I had very little rest in there.”

“I’m well aware of what you’ve gone through and I’d have tried to prevent it if I’d known it in time.” He was growing a little impatient in spite of his wish for appeasement. “There’s no sense looking back to the past when there’s nothing we can do to erase it or evade the consequences. The fact is I’m in charge of you now, and that’s the best you can get, so let’s go with it and have a deal for the future.”

“A deal?”

“Yes, to set the rules about our forthcoming cohabitation. As I was saying when you interrupted me, I’m willing to give you all the help and support I’m capable of, to spare you further interrogation and to clarify your situation with the authorities regarding your legal status. But there are two conditions.” He looked through the boy’s defiant eyes; “First, that you fully cooperate in everything I judge useful to restoring your memory – considering there won’t be anything remotely similar to the MI6 methods – and, secondly, that you give me your word of honour you’re not going to run away at the first available opportunity.”

Bodie avoided his gaze and remained silent for several minutes. He was visibly checking the possibilities of escape and discarding them one after another. “I can’t promise to stay with you for too long. No more than a few days…”

Cowley exploded. “Come on, man! I’m not proposing you to share my life!” He went on more calmly; “I was intending to spend two or three weeks here, at the most. The doctors at Repton agreed that there was a good chance you’d recover your memory (actually they had said ‘sanity’) within days, incrementally, as your blood cleared of the psycho-active drugs you’d been on.” He didn’t specify they had no idea about the long lasting effects of the brain-washing and electric shocks he’d been subjected to. “Seems the cocktail was unexpectedly aggressive, or you’re unusually intolerant.”

“They should have thought about it beforehand.” Bodie grumbled.

“Most of your, er, treatment was prescribed by the MI6 specialists under their responsibility and administered by their own medical team. The Repton physicians had no say about it.” Having finally exhausted his reserve of patience, he stammered, “Are you, or are you not, going to stay put for two weeks, working on your memory with me? Knowing that if you choose not to cooperate, if I don’t get in touch with my contact twice a day, you are fair game for all the special forces of the Kingdom…”

Bodie just yawned. “I’m tired, want to sleep.” He slouched back in his seat, pushing it backwards with a snap while stretching his legs full length. Through half shut eyelids, he must have caught a glimpse of warning on the older man’s face for he relented, “I suppose I might try, for two weeks…”

That was as good a promise as it came. Cowley nodded in silent assessment. He was pleased with the boy’s progress. Too soon.

   
Bodie didn’t get back to sleep, but he kept to himself during the last part of the trip, oddly quiet, just looking through the car’s window at the mountain ridge, sharply outlined in black against the deep blue of the night sky. The moon now was high and full above the pine-trees, bright enough to dull the stars, its silvery light pervading the landscape all around with a pale shimmer. Bodie’s face was pale too in this lightning, his skin ashen and his neatly chiselled lips discoloured. His still profile, framed by the car’s window, unpleasantly reminded Cowley of a funeral mask.

He fought the eerie feeling that was getting to him; his passenger’s fast change of moods, from inquisitiveness to withdrawal, though clearly down to his state of intoxication, was becoming an annoyance. He suddenly needed to hear the sound of a voice, even his own, if the damned stubborn son of a bitch was going to persist in his spooky act.

 “Look, laddie, we’re almost there. Have you made up your mind? I need a firm assurance of your good will, not some vague, “I suppose I might try”; so, what’s your last word?” His voice was dry and clipped, devoid of all its previous studied gentleness.

 Swiveling briskly, Bodie came back to life in a flash. “You told me I had no choice. Looks like you’re right. I couldn’t run away for long, even if I wanted to.” He paused. “I don’t want to. I feel tired. I don’t understand anything. I just want to sleep and not wake up for a hundred years.”

At that, Cowley almost choked on a laugh. “I’m a patient and persistent man, as you’ll see, but that’s too long a wait for my life expectancy. I can only give you the rest of the night and the next morning. Till noon, no more.”

Shrugging, Bodie went back to his pose of indifference (Cowley had decided it was a pose), which he maintained during the last twenty minutes of the drive. They didn’t pass through Aberfoyle; turning left before they reached it, Cowley followed a narrow road, bordered by the southern bank of the loch on one side and the forest slopes on the other, down to a place with the odd name of Blairhullichan. Then he took a dirt lane, hardly suitable for urban vehicles, which led uphill to a massive stone building.

He intended to leave the car in the farmyard; no need to wake the old man at two in the morning. He heard the dogs barking, far away. So, Angus had taken them to the old kennel so as not to be disturbed. Cowley didn’t like the idea of being such a burden to a seventy year old pensioner, but Angus was Army, better: Navy, and besides, as strong as an oak.

Bodie was looking at him interrogatively. Cowley opened the door. “We’re not there yet. The lodge is by the river down there, not by the loch, about half way from here. We’ve to walk down through the forest.” He grasped his travel bag and showed Bodie the heavy hemp bag with the food supply and a remaining large suitcase. “Take those; I don’t want to come back tomorrow morning.” Bodie’s little smile irritated him. “Come on, man; you seem well enough fit to carry them both. I’ve to hold the torch.” A swift glance at the other’s sleepy look and slouching posture, with the sudden memory of his precious fresh eggs, gave him an afterthought. “I’ll take the food. Try not to drop the suitcase, there are bottles in it.”

They started cautiously stepping down a pretty steep forest path. Confronted by a Scottish repeat of his previous nightmarish trek on the slippery Yorkshire road, Cowley cursed his choice of a shelter and the unwise partiality for fresh food that had brought him twice in a day to the same ridiculous and painful predicament. This was a surviving hedonistic streak in his otherwise well honed habits of discipline, which he sternly promised himself to put a check on in the future.

Sunk in his thoughts, he tripped on a root and slipped; he would have lost his balance if his companion hadn’t held him firmly with his free arm. The gesture was more instinctive than friendly, but it touched him oddly. During the briefest of moments he yielded to the embrace, wrapped in the warmth of a young and strong body. Then he straightened himself and shifted off, bending to pick up the travel bag he had dropped. Suddenly he felt cold and queasy.

“Thanks, Bodie,” he said uneasily.”

“Let me have the heavy bag. You’re tired; I can take both actually.”

“Mind your own business, young man,” he snapped. He hated his rudeness, and he hated even more the gleam of compassion he had seen in the boy’s gaze. “There is no point anyway,” he added grudgingly, “the lodge is only a few yards away now.”

That was right. The path soon got wider and easier. They could distinctly hear the river lapping on its rocky banks just before they entered a rather large clearing surrounded by oaks. The house in the centre, small but solidly built of grey stone and wood beams, was a welcome sight for both men. With intense relief, Cowley noticed the light above the door. The power was on; the generator was working. There would be no need for struggling to start the beastly machine and its oil feeding in the middle of the night. He fervently blessed his cousin’s good will and support. Things hadn’t always been that hospitable between the MacFarlanes and the MacGregors, even in the family circle, but Angus MacFarlane was the best of his ilk!

He retrieved the key from under the usual flat stone, left of the threshold (silly hiding place by the way but there was not much to steal in the lodge and it was difficult to reach it by any other way than the loch and the river).

The room inside was chilly. Cowley remembered that the small electric heater was broken the last time he was here, last summer; apparently it hadn’t been repaired since then. The weather had been quite mild and pleasant during the past days but May in this area was not a month when you can do without a little heating at night.

“It’s damp,” complained Bodie.

“Yes, it is,” Cowley retorted sourly, “That’s spring in Scotland, we’re close to the river, what do you expect?”

Bodie mumbled something indistinct.

“I assume you know how to light a fire; so, try to make you useful while I unpack and set the bedding.”

Bodie nodded and obeyed silently. Everything necessary was on display in the fireplace: logs, sticks and twigs, with matches close by. Soon, a pleasant blaze was dancing in the hearth. “Quick and efficient,” noted Cowley, as he was laying sheets and quilt on a narrow bunk by the fireplace. Not for the first time he wondered whether the man wasn’t acting; not from the beginning - that was unlikely - … though? It was not impossible to simulate while drugged; he knew that; he had done it himself. Anyway, whatever the case, the solution was the same. He had to regain the boy’s trust.

Which boy, at the moment, really looked as exhausted and sleepy as he claimed to be, and Cowley wasn’t any better. Gathering all his strength, he had made his bed in the main bedroom and arranged his clothes in the big oak wardrobe. His first move had been to take the RT out of his travel bag and to put it in full sight on the chest of drawers. There was actually no settlement for regular radio checking signals, contrary to his previous assertion, but Bodie didn’t need to know that. The gun had been unloaded, wrapped in a wool scarf and hidden beneath a removable floorboard under the bed, its empty holster lying near the RT. He had no intention of using it and he wanted it to be out of Bodie’s reach; if the man got wild again, there still would be Harrington’s remedy. Though he loathed the idea, it would be better than a bullet. The medication’s innocuous looking package had been placed in the kitchen cupboard, behind a stack of various tins and cans, a single dose remaining in Cowley’s pocket, thus available at any moment.

Now, after a quick snack, he was sitting at the table, in front of Bodie, each one sipping his own comfort drink: hot strong tea for Bodie and single malt for Cowley: Laphroaigh, 16 years old.

“I don’t think I should offer you alcohol in your condition,” Cowley apologised.

“I don’t want it,” replied Bodie; “By the way, where did this bottle come from?”

“From my suitcase, where it was keeping company with its twin and two fine old bottles of burgundy.”

Bodie seemed to ponder the information. “Why the suitcase? Did you come to Repton with the intention of taking me out with you?”

“Of course not; the suitcase has been in the boot of my car since the week-end I spent with the MacLarens, two weeks ago. Jamie MacLaren was released soon after my first visit to the London hospital, as you know.”

Bodie’s gaze was blank. “I don’t remember anything. I told you.”

“Well,” said Cowley, uncompromisingly, “Seems my memory is not so good either. I’d forgotten the suitcase and the bottles. I hope the variations of temperature didn’t alter the wine’s quality; this vintage is exceptional. Fergie is a real connoisseur.”

Bodie looked abysmally uninterested, so Cowley stopped the small talk. “Whatever, this oblivion was lucky in a way; at least I have proper clothes for the place and the season.” He considered the athletic young man in front of him, “I’m afraid none of them would suit you, but Angus always used to leave a lot of his old things here and he must be about your size.”

“Where can I sleep?” Bodie cut in abruptly.

“I take the bedroom; you’ve got the bunk by the fireplace.”

“Of course!”

“What d’you mean, ‘of course’!” Cowley exclaimed, sounding indignant, “I give you the warm place; I’m left with the cold room. What are you complaining about?”

“It’s narrow, and it’s hard.”

“What a sissy boy we’ve got here! Was the vermin infested pallet I found you on in Katanga more comfortable?”

“I know nothing about Katanga,” Bodie answered calmly and slowly, “I know nothing about Africa or about anything from my past, just what you told me yourself. And I repeat I have no memory beyond the moment I saw you in Repton.”

“Not even vague reminiscences, images, sounds, scenes relived in dreams?”

“Not even that, or if I have, I forget them as soon as I’m awake.” Bodie cast a piercing look at his minder. “You don’t believe me. Do you think I’m faking?”

That was too close to home. Cowley lied: “No, I believe you.”

Bodie smiled, a curious little resigned smile; “You don’t trust me.” He paused. “That’s funny; because I trusted you.”

He sounded sincere.

 

 


	4. Test

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Testing each other

 

“You don’t trust me. That’s funny, because I trusted you.”

Startled, Cowley almost skipped a heart beat. He hadn’t expected this. Of course, it had to be translated as “I’ve found no other way to get out of your grip, so far.” But it was unsettling nonetheless. He looked straight through Bodie’s eyes. “I hope I can trust you - I want to - and you’ve to trust me because I'm the only backer you’ve got in this game.”

“I don't play,” the young man retorted sternly.

Cowley snorted. From all the tit-bits of information he had collected, the man was a gambler if ever there was one.

“So, should have I said: 'the only ally in this war’?”

"What war?”

“I wish I had the answer. And you need to get it because it's the key to your freedom in this country.”

Bodie grew sombre. “What do you mean?” Cowley hesitated. Perhaps, it was too early for a full explanation. But this had to be said sooner or later and maybe the shock of a direct attack would elicit an instructive reaction from the lad in his present state of exhaustion; if he wasn’t faking, of course.

“From the information I've gathered, you're a mercenary and a gun-runner. For MI6, you are specifically suspected of providing arms and technical support to the Palestinian activists; something our government is not keen about letting pass unchecked and unsanctioned, or appearing to do so in the eyes of our Israeli friends. He paused. “I’ve got clout enough to give you a clean sheet and a new life if I can trade it against valuable intelligence.”

“About the Palestinians? From me?” If Bodie’s astonishment was an act, then he was the actor of the century. He held the older man’s scrutinizing gaze for a long while and sighed, eventually breaking eye contact. “Are you sure I was a gun-runner and a mercenary?”

“Yes, of that at least, I’m sure; though of little else.” Maybe it wasn’t wise to admit as much. Was trust contagious? Cowley relented. “You’re knackered and so am I. We’ll discuss your past tomorrow. Let’s go to bed.”

And that was all for the night.

 

Of the days that followed, and for all the years to come, far ahead in the future, Cowley would keep a vivid, deceptively sharp memory, but unreal, like the mental images we keep of certain potent, recurrent dreams that, awakening, we can hardly distinguish from our daylight experiences; though we know with certainty they weren't part of our terrestrial life.

And yet, everything had begun so normally...

The next morning was ushered in by a belligerent sunbeam thrusting straight into Cowley's eyes through his bedroom window. Blinking, he rose up, fully awake at once and ready to start his customary morning routine.

He showered and shaved, trying not to use all the hot water, then cooked a copious breakfast, again blessing the kind heart and provident mind of his cousin; the old man had seen that the fridge was filled with abundant supplies of everything he deemed necessary. Which was a lot. A near-by farmer must have been commissioned in a hurry.

“I hope you like eggs,” he addressed to Bodie when the youth emerged from his bunk some time later, looking shabby in Angus’ worn out dressing gown, “because forty eight will be a little too many for me alone, even for two weeks.”

“Love ‘em,” Bodie mumbled as he slumped down in front of him. He stayed quiet for a while, eyes shut; then, suddenly livened up by the smell of fried bread and bacon, exclaimed enthusiastically: “All fucking mighty gods! That’s breakfast!”

“Rather than blaspheme, young man, thank old Angus who provided us all this good fare.” (barring the load I was silly enough to carry on slippery slopes, at extreme risk of breaking my neck) he added to himself, a bit gloomily.

Bodie happily dug his buttered toast into the creamy, fluffy mound of scrambled eggs. “Who’s Angus?”

“Angus MacFarlane, my cousin, as I told you. Or, more accurately, my father’s brother-in-law. I always called him “cousin” but he's my uncle by marriage actually.”

Swallowing a double portion of eggs and bacon on fried bread, Bodie seemed to consider the question: “Your father's name's Cowley, I take it? Doesn't sound very Scottish; English, rather. So, you've got relatives by marriage in Scotland but you're not a Scot yourself?”

Cowley spluttered, almost choking on his tea. When he was able to speak again, his voice was vibrating with indignation. “What d'you mean, relatives by marriage? My mother was a MacFarlane too, from another branch, my father's mother a MacGregor from both sides, my mother's mother a Lamont and a MacLaren, and you can pretty well go back to Middle Ages that way...” He stopped, feeling silly as he caught sight of a twinkling in Bodie's eyes. The boy was teasing him.

Which, again, raised his suspicion. Sure, he had told Bodie “I am a Scot.” But that was in the London military hospital; never since had he hinted anything about his origins, except that he had relatives in Scotland. “And what do you know about Scotland anyway?”

Bodie shrugged: “No more than I do about my past or anything else; I could well be Scottish myself, for all I know.”

Cowley snorted with affected disdain; “Not with that Paddy mug of yours.”

“I assume that statement was meant to be derogatory?” Bodie articulated in a plummy voice.

Taken aback by this odd display of pedantry coming from a young hobo, and vaguely ashamed of himself, Cowley opted for self-derision: “Not in the least, some of my best friends are Irish, you know... ”

It was said quite playfully but Bodie didn't let himself be disarmed so easily; “I don't doubt it; and some others are Jewish, I'm assured.”

At that, Cowley growled: “Stop it now! I don't need lessons from you, especially on that ground.”

They stared at each other, neither willing to yield. Cowley won, to his own surprise. He felt better and spoke more gently.

“You've still a few things to learn, laddie. And first: how to give and take as gentlemen do in society. If you can't take a joke for a joke... ”

“Oh, I can. Except when the joke is a racist slur.”

Cowley frowned. “Don't start me again on this. There was nothing of the sort in my mind. Why did you react that way? Are you Irish?”

Bodie sighed. “How many times must I repeat it? I've not the least idea who I am and where I'm coming from.”

Cowley feigned to study his guest’s features keenly: “You could well be half-Scottish after all. Are you certain your name is Bodie?”

“Yes,” Bodie replied firmly. “Bodie’s my name.”

“Bodie, not Brodie?"

Bodie looked amazed. “Why do you say that?”

“There’s very little difference in pronunciation and it’s not infrequent that spelling gets done wrong when transcribed on a birth certificate.”

“But why do you suppose such a thing?”

Actually, this was precisely what Cowley was wondering. “Oh, I was simply thinking of the Brodie clan of Moray; it’s a very old and honourable lineage.”

Bodie laughed softly. “If you absolutely want to count me among your innumerable cousins, I won’t object. Don’t care. I’m sure I always was called Bodie, though.”

“Good to have this one certainty, at least.” Cowley’s smile was genuine. The mood between them was getting lighter and almost friendly in spite of their previous clash. His, by no means involuntary, “blunder” had provided him some interesting pieces of information: whatever his later way of life had been, the lad had received a fairly good education.

Something he wasn’t exactly showing at the moment. After he had wolfed down the greater part of the eggs and bacon and most of the toasts, he was pouring a flood of cocoa powder, directly from the box into his bowl of oatmeal, generously adding more hot milk and a large spoonful of honey.

“What are you doing?” Cowley asked, aghast.

“I like chocolate.”

“Me too but not in porridge!”

“Too bad you don’t,” Bodie replied placidly. And he set about swilling down the disgusting mixture.

 

Ever since their arrival the door had been left unlocked and Bodie's knowing gaze was proof he had noticed. Not that a door would have stopped him, had he attempted to flee, but that was sort of symbolic…

Eventually Cowley decided there was no reason they couldn't pay a courtesy visit to his cousin. He owed him that much. Bodie looked peaceful and rational enough now, though still apparently amnesic. If in itself this rapid return to normal could have meant something suspicious in Cowley's eyes, it was in no way threatening - at least not for the moment - and, besides, he could put to use Angus' sharp mind and experience of men in those matters. The old man had been the first to introduce him to the military intelligence career and he trusted him completely.

“Fancy a walk?” he asked as they were finishing their lunch.

“I had a walk,” Bodie replied, swallowing his last bite of an apple. He threw the core over his shoulder through the window behind and spat a pip into his dish, ignoring his companion's deep frown.

Actually Cowley had let him go to the nearby river while he himself was busy checking the fishing equipment in the adjoining tools shed. And the boy had come back on time, proudly waving two small trout skewered on a sharpened twig. Cowley had told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of such a barbaric way of fishing; Bodie had agreed, and eaten both fish merrily.

“We're going to see Angus Mac Farlane,” Cowley said sharply, “to thank him for his generous hospitality. I expect you to behave properly... if you haven't lost all notion of what's considered to be civilized manners in this country.”

“I'll behave,” Bodie promised, “Scout's honour!” Cowley's glare made him lower his gaze. “Seriously, I don’t mean to stir up any trouble. We've an agreement and I'll keep to it. What d'you think? That I would run away with the silverware?”

This wasn't to be dignified with an answer. Cowley went back to the tools shed to fix the fishing rods while Bodie obediently helped by cleaning the small boat. And so, later in the afternoon, after a much faster and easier climb up the same forest path they had so painfully walked down the night before, they had showed themselves at the farm's main door, quickly ushered in by Bart, Angus' handyman and former orderly.

“Good evening, Major. Glad to see you.”

“Me too, Bart, thanks for the express supply; it was really helpful. And how’s Martha doing?”

“Fine and dandy, as I am,” grinned the old man, “Now busy in the kitchen cooking her famous pie.”

“Wait, we aren’t –“

“Yes, you are!” Bart’s grin widened. Martha will never forgive you if you don’t stay for dinner. You wouldn’t disappoint Martha and the Captain, would you?”

“How’s my cousin?” Cowley said hastily, before Bart, who had known him in short trousers, could forget what was left of his military sense of etiquette and go all familiar in Bodie's presence. Last time he had argued with him, the man had called him a scallywag.

“Ah, ah, same question, same answer,” was the reply, “Fine and dandy, as I said. He's waiting for you in the main lounge.”

  
The house was large and ancient. More a mansion than a farm, though it had been built as one two centuries ago. Cowley vaguely wondered how Angus, who wasn't as affluent as his family used to be, could still afford the repairs and the wages of two full time servants. The post-war tax laws had made it impossible for most people. Probably he wasn't paying them any longer and the three of them were living in a sort of fraternal community, not mentioning the four legged members. Which, at the moment, were barking and hopping madly all around as they entered the room.

“Rover, Rascal, quiet… sit down!”

Angus Mac Farlane got up briskly from his seat to welcome them. He was slightly taller than Bodie, Cowley noticed, and his bony face was getting gaunter with years. But Bart was right: the old man's stance radiated strength and health. He was centenarian material, if anything.

“Thanks a lot, Angus. My apologies for requesting your help at such short notice.”

“Never mind, you know you can count on me. And I understand there were quite special circumstances.” He gave Bodie the professional once-over from under bushy brows. “So, this is our unexpected guest?”

“You may call him that, at least no stowaway: Wasn't exactly willing. Were you?” This got a pout from Bodie, who suddenly looked a very young and rebellious schoolboy.

“Anyway, be welcome at Stronchuillin, young man.”

“My name's Bodie,” Bodie said firmly.

“So he said,” Cowley commented dryly; “that's unfortunately the only thing he seems to know about himself.”

Angus' expression was all benevolence and sympathy, if you didn't consider the sharpness of the penetrating blue gaze, so similar to Cowley's, while he was taking in Bodie's features and bearing.

“ Don't worry, lad; you have plenty of time to work it through, with my cousin's help.” He smiled encouragingly. “And mine,” he added. Hell, no, thought Cowley, the point is we do not have all the time in the world, maybe very little time, and Angus should know that. The truce he had negotiated couldn't last forever. But he didn't want to break the flimsy bond of trust that Angus was trying to build with the boy; he kept his reflections to himself. The vague, half-baked plan he’d had in mind when he had decided to ask for his cousin’s help was taking shape nicely but he wasn’t sure now was the right time to disclose it.

A while later, greetings and introductions duly done, they settled in front of a roaring fire, sipping hot strong tea with a tray of light snacks, keenly watched upon by over-friendly dogs, Rover sitting by Bodie's side and Rascal sprawled on Cowley's feet.

“Don't feed the dogs!” warned Cowley as he caught a glimpse of a buttered crumpet being swiftly slipped into the big spaniel's mouth.

“Good advice” agreed Angus, “but too late: I'm afraid they've already been irredeemably spoilt by Martha.” He smiled, “Rover likes you, Bodie; still one more crumpet and you won't be able to get rid of him. You'll be smothered with canine love.”

“No need of crumpets for that,” grumbled Cowley, tugging at Rascal's long ears to push him aside. The smaller spaniel yawned, turned round and got back to position on the other side. “And take this feline off me!” Disturbed by the move, a large ginger cat had leaped from under the next seat right onto Cowley's lap.

“Poppy, get down! George, really, I hope you're more patient with men than with animals.”

“Hardly,” dared Bodie, and Cowley glared at him while Angus winked.

“I'm not used to living in a zoo.”

“That's the town mouse visiting the country mouse, eh?”

“Speaking of which, have you renewed your fishing license this year?”

  
They talked of trite, innocuous topics, like the weather, hunting and fishing, various family events, the promising future of Angus' two oldest grandsons, respectively in New-Zealand's sheep farming and the service of HM in a ruinously distinguished regiment. Bodie behaved alright, though not in a very communicative way, and visibly bored, but suffering patiently. Cowley was wondering if they would ever come to the point.

He cast a sidelong glance at Angus. All that idle chit-chat was probably meant to be soothing and reassuring to his reluctant guest. Sure, he was willing to let Angus play his part as he felt proper but he was still growing impatient. He hadn’t had time to present him with all aspects of the situation the previous day and, of course, there was no telephone in the lodge. Yet he had no doubt his cousin was able to guess what was expected of him without much explanation. Angus was sharp. In the narrow and very discreet circles where he was still known, he had won the fame of a true spy mastermind. Few also remembered he had been, back in his time, a pioneer in some weird fields of psychological research. Something Cowley intended to remind him about. Soonest.

But Bodie preceded him. “What precisely is this help you're offering me?” he asked warily in the middle of a totally unrelated war-time tale from the old man.

MacFarlane considered him intently for a while. “Do you really want to recover your memory?” Bodie flinched. “I – don't know,” he said; not for the first time, Cowley noticed. “You have to be willing and work for it. There's really nothing I can do for you in your own place.”

Bodie seemed to be inwardly wriggling under the pressure of two piercing gazes boring through him mercilessly. “Er, I understand that. I just… feel that way. It’s odd, yeah; I… don’t know why…”

“Come on, man,” Cowley snapped, “you can’t postpone this much longer. Soon we’ll have all Her Majesty’s services laying into us again. And you promised to cooperate, remember,” he added, more gently.

“I remember,” Bodie said weakly, his morning perkiness vanished altogether.

“That was the condition for your release, and for my protection.”

“Thanks so very much! Who's going to protect me from you?”

“You’ve nothing to fear from us, you’re not in the claws of the MI6 bloodhounds any more. But you could be sent back to them directly if you linger too much.”

“I just need to know what you intend to do with me, that's all.”

“That's only too natural,” Angus interfered in his strangely appeasing voice, “perfectly legitimate demand, son; you've a right to ask, and the more so since nothing is achievable without your consent.”

“So, what's it about?”

“Nothing extraordinary, nothing dangerous: basically hypnosis with add-ons.”

Cowley wondered about the adds. He’d had no time to discuss the details with Angus when they had talked on the phone. He had just assumed he could rely upon his cousin to deal with the necessary.

Bodie, obviously, didn't share this point of view. He stared at Cowley: “You told me you wouldn't use the same methods they did at Repton, that I wouldn't be forced. I can do without still another shrink.”

“I'm not a shrink,” Angus protested, just an honest to God Navy officer with an interest in psychology.”

“You can trust my cousin,” Cowley said curtly.

“I'm pretty sure hypnosis wasn't used on you,” explained MacFarlane, “or if it was, it failed, because it's not possible to get hypnosis working without the subject's consent.” Looking through Bodie's eyes, he added with conviction: “If you do not want to get your memory back, whatever the reason, you won't. But think a bit more about it. A man without a past is only half-living, and has a most uncertain future.”

“I’m afraid he may even have no future at all,” was Cowley’s grim comment.

“Tut-tut, don’t frighten the boy, George, it’s not the best way of achieving what has to be done.”

“Which is?” Cowley’s impatience was resurfacing in spite of all his best intentions.

“Proceedings that take time. Like awakening, one by one, the several spots of consciousness that are now deep asleep, re-connecting together the brain’s areas that have been shut down by, let’s say: fear, anger, pride, whatever; the need to keep in control struggling with the survival instinct, the whole emotional complex.”

“I thought it was mainly due to chemicals.” Cowley didn’t want to be carried too far along the psychology path.

“If his state of amnesia was only a side-effect of the chemicals he’d absorbed, it would have receded as they have been drained out of his system.”

“Have they been?”

“Maybe not completely, but for the most part, yes. The boy’s awareness and rationality is fairly good, I reckon. As much as I can tell without further examination, he seems to have recovered all his abilities and skills, minus the memory of past events.”

“Eh!” Bodie broke in, “I’m here! May I have a word?”

“Sure,” Angus smiled. “We’re not trying to dismiss you, lad. I just wanted to make a few points clear before proposing a process.”

“Proposing to me or proposing to your cousin?”

“Both. Aren’t you working together on this? But first to you, of course.”

“ What is my choice exactly? A soft brain-washing with you two against a hard brain-raking with the others?”

“That's the idea,” said Cowley, flatly.

“No, it’s not!” Indignation in Angus’ voice sounded sincere. Cowley himself might have been convinced, had he not known the old fox so well. “The process involved in hypnosis has nothing to do with brainwashing or any form of mind abuse or manipulation; in a way, it's almost the opposite; you can describe it more accurately as an inner journey to self-knowledge and self-repossession. “

“ But you do have to manipulate your patient to extract what you want from him, don't you?” From Bodie's tone, it was more an assertion than a question.

“No, all I have to do is to guide him from the outside through the maze of his own inner self; I am Ariadne's thread; the only real actor is the subject, nothing can be done against his will. Be sure of that.”

“The only thing I know for sure is you want information from me.”

“Yes, and you need help from us.” Cowley cut, sharp. He had easily jumped back into the familiar ‘good cop/bad cop’ pattern. “Isn't that a fair trade?”

“So, I was right; I have no choice.” He looked away, expressionless.

Bodie was yielding, however bitterly. Cowley's bluntness appeared to be more effective than MacFarlane's kindness and diplomacy, Cowley noted with satisfaction. The forlorn look on Bodie’s face was disturbing though. Not minding the dynamic reversal, he gently patted the big, strong hand laying on the close-by armrest. “Don't be afraid. Just prove to me you're doing everything you can and I will provide you all the help that's in my power. And, don't be mistaken: that's not a little.”

Bodie faced him back again and said hesitantly: “Even if there's no result?”

Cowley fastened his grip on Bodie's hand: “I give you my word: Be faithful to me and I won't let you down, whatever happens.” Those were words he would later wish he had never pronounced.

He missed Angus' stunned look because his eyes were riveted to Bodie's. The boy relaxed and smiled, with plain trust. “I'll do everything I can.”

“So, we have a deal,” MacFarlane stated. “When do you want to start?”

“As soon as possible,” replied Cowley, “tomorrow morning”.

Bodie said nothing and MacFarlane watched him attentively.

“I see no reason to rush things. You need a rest; I need preparation. I suggest two days off: the weather is fine; go for a walk, go fishing, go boating; just don't worry, don't think about the forthcoming job if you can help it, enjoy your free time and relax.”

Bodie grinned, Cowley frowned. As pleasant as this program was, or would have been in other circumstances, he was worried about the waste of time. But maybe Angus was right: Bodie didn't look tired (ah, to be twenty-four again!); he had gone through a lot though, and his good will deserved a reward.

“All right, Angus, we'll be here on Monday morning, nine sharp.”

MacFarlane laughed. “Did I misread something, George? I thought I was the man in charge.”

“No, you're only Captain.”

“Still the same impetuous, disrespectful imp of old, eh? OK, Major. But I want something from Bodie in the meantime.”

“What?” asked Bodie and Cowley at the same time.

“He must take four or five cups a day of a special herb tea I'll order Martha to fix upon my prescription.”

Herb tea? MacFarlane had always been an eccentric and a seeker of long-lost knowledge. Had he turned into a village healer in his old age?

“I don't want to take drugs.”

“Yes, Angus; I promised he wouldn't have to absorb any other psycho-active substance as long as I assume the responsibility for his treatment. And the responsibility, I do keep it."

“Well, any substance is psychoactive, beginning with the caffeine and the carbohydrates you just took in; but I can certify that my mixture is totally innocuous; its only purpose is to relax, soothe the tensions of body and mind, appease the bouts of anxiety. Since it's evident that nho effective work can be achieved if the subject's consciousness is fighting the process, out of fear and distrust."

“I want to know the components.”

“You can have the recipe, no problem. You can also share the potion with Bodie if you want to experiment the effects on you.” Angus chuckled; “maybe you should. I feel you very tense, cousin. It would do you a world of good!”

 

 


	5. Bond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is memory a cure or a curse?

 

The famous pie was indeed a monument. Its tender core of game and beer gravy delivered fully what its golden crispy crust promised. The whole meal was a triumph for the cook. It was served in the dining room with some old-fashioned formality and eaten with great appetite by three starving men.

 _A treat well earned_ , thought Cowley, discreetly rubbing his sore leg under the table, _the vain old git didn't spare us a rose bush or a broom cupboard_.

Hardly an exaggeration; after a thorough sight-seeing tour of the building for Bodie's sake, they had had a long walk along the upper part of the river (more of a burn at that level) followed by a lazy stroll in the garden where the blossom’s fragrance of the May roses was overwhelming.

Bodie had recovered some of his previous cheerfulness. He looked peaceful and relaxed enough, as if he was coming to terms with the odds and hazards of his current predicament. He talked with Angus, quite amiably and desultorily, about various topics: boats, fishing, sports in general and the military career.

“You look very fit, and apt for the service, Bodie: no way you could apply though, if you don't manage to retrieve your memory and to clear your legal situation, except, of course if you intend to enter the Foreign Legion.”

“Foreign Legion” seemed to stir something in Bodie's mind. But it was just a brief glimmer in the misty blue gaze.

“Rings a bell?” asked Angus.

“No, not really. I've heard of it, sure; they're very tough and professional.”

“They would certainly recruit you without question.”

Cowley cut in sharply. “Wait a minute, Angus! He's just back home in Britain and you want to pack him off to the Frogs?”

Angus laughed. “Pooh, pooh, cousin! What do you make of the Auld Alliance?”

“I leave it to historians.”

“Still, aren’t we supposed to be allies?” Angus commented with a sly smile.

“Bollocks! Has it ever prevented rivalry? Take the Five Nations Championship. Would you let our good players go to the opposing team?”

“Perish the thought!” Angus protested, pleasantly, “Don't you dare say that to an old practising rugby man like me!” He turned to Bodie: “Do you like rugby, Bodie?”

“I love rugby,” replied Bodie enthusiastically, “I used to play scrum-half at school.” He stopped short, looking dumb, mouth open for a second.

Cowley growled, his suspicions rushing back at once: “If I find out you’re trying to fool me…”

“Quiet, George; you’ll scare the kid.” _Oh no, Angus, not this avuncular tone with me, please..._

Bodie recovered his voice as quickly as his composure: “I’m not a kid and I’m not scared. I don’t know where that comes from but, yes, I am sure I used to play rugby…” He paused and added hesitantly: “and cricket too, I think.”

“Must have been a good school you were in,” Angus remarked, thoughtfully.

“Eh, why not?” Bodie retorted good-humouredly, in his best plummy voice, “Do you mean you deem me unworthy?”

“Soon we’ll learn he’s an Eton old boy,” Cowley quipped, not knowing why he was irked, “a pity it doesn’t fit well with that trace of scouse I detect every time he opens his mouth…”

“I don’t see why you take it that way, George; didn’t you tell me two hours ago his name was the only thing he knew about himself? Well, the fog seems to be clearing a bit. There’s some progress and this even before we’ve started anything. Shouldn’t you find this encouraging?”

Actually that was all Cowley wished for, though he couldn’t help resenting something in Bodie’s bearing: was it his increasing assertiveness, or was it the good understanding he saw growing between Angus and him? _No, of course not, I wanted this. I_ _hoped it would help and it does_.

“I suppose you're right,” he admitted reluctantly, “If we've been given the true story.”

“Have you got any reason to doubt Bodie’s word?”

“No!” Bodie exclaimed vehemently.

“Angus, really, is that a question people in our profession can ask?”

“Well, I’d say that, in our profession, systematic distrust is as much a cause of failure as credulity.”

“I used to trust my friends and have had occasions to regret it.” Cowley wondered if his voice sounded as bitter to others as it did to him. “That’s in order; who can betray you but your friends?”

“You’re not at risk with me then, since we’re not friends.”

Bodie's words and tone caught him unguarded and he recoiled, then lashed back. “Very true. So what?” he sneered. “What did you expect, sonny? A blood-bond oath?”

Bodie just stared at him uncomprehendingly and he strove to get a grip on himself. “We're both in a business agreement; you fulfill your part, I'll do mine: understood?”

Bodie nodded, curtly. His face was expressionless. Was he hurt? Cowley decided he didn’t need to know.

“All I demand from you is honesty, but I want it complete. And be careful; you may perhaps deceive me once but not twice.”

Bodie sighed. “If I wasn’t aware of that, I wouldn’t be here.” There was some reason in this argument. Cowley had no doubt that a man like the merc’, with his wild past and his gambler, daredevil mindset, would find a way out of any trap, had he the will and the resources that a fully recovered memory would bring him back; just a phone call to the right contact would do, at least to attempt a hurried escape. On the other hand, the promised protection kept all his value regarding the future, but only if Cowley was still willing to warrant the man’s good will to the authorities. Well, all being weighed, there was no mean to tell whether the scale was leaning toward trust or distrust.

“You've better convince me of it.”

“I'm not lying,” Bodie said simply.

Cowley bore his gaze into the other man’s eyes, with the penetrating, fierce intensity that was so effective with suspects on interrogation. It was met with an unyielding stare and this time he was glad to be resisted. There was what looked like a genuine candour in those dark pupils, with a steadfast dignity he hadn't the heart to insult by questioning the boy's sincerity. Seemed the scale had swung on the trust side eventually.

He chastised himself inwardly about his misguiding temper. Angus was right: if they wanted results, and he had a hunch they'd need to get some soon, they had to bet on Bodie's loyalty.

“You don't believe me.”

Cowley couldn't help a twinge of guilt at the quiet acceptance he heard in the subdued voice.

“Be happy I chose to believe you,” he said gruffly, “as long as you don't give me motive to doubt you”.

Bodie shrugged. “I know where my best interest is, if it’s what you want to hear. Is that a language you understand?”

Cheeky devil! You can't play demure more than ten seconds, can you? Guilt and compassion were gone. “Keep this healthy thought firmly in mind and we’ll have some common ground to stand on.”

“OK, you're the boss,” Bodie's voice was weary, “You command, I obey; That's what you want? Fine with me.”

“I've told you what I want: honesty, pure and simple. I need your commitment to the task and your full cooperation in the process.”

“Well, you have it,” Bodie sounded surprised and somehow relieved, “I've already given you my word on this long ago.”

Angus was watching the exchange with an irritatingly knowing smile on his craggy face. “So, the deal is done, once and for all I hope. Now we can think of more serious matters: the dinner, for example. Am I the only one to be hungry?”

He certainly wasn't. The meal did wonders to perk up the mood of the guests, and so, two hours and something later, they were sitting in the lounge again, sipping a fairly decent brandy and talking quite peacefully about more innocuous topics, though still pretty controversial, like the compared merits of cognac and whisky. Nothing was said about the upcoming therapy session.

   
Before they left, Cowley managed to have a talk with Angus in private. He sent Bodie to the kitchen, to fetch a bag of fresh buns and scones, which Martha had insisted they took with them to the lodge for tea-time and breakfast, asking him to retrieve the herb mix Angus had ordered from the cook before their afternoon walk. He was thus assured to have at least half an hour to himself, enough to provide Angus with all the missing information about the case and to get from him all he needed to know about the upcoming treatment. It wasn't much, since Angus claimed he hadn't made his mind yet and wanted to use the two days break to think more about it and set up a plan.

The only definite part of it seemed to be the herbal potion, the components of which were as obscure to Cowley as Bodie's past was. Angus was adamant they were totally harmless, meant only to soothe and relax without dimming the subject's senses; on the contrary they were expected to quicken them, while broadening the scope of consciousness and activating the emotional levers of the memory.

Staring with suspicion at the sheet of paper in his hands, Cowley felt quite happy that he was not the intended subject of the experiment.

“You could take it yourself profitably,” said Angus, answering a question he hadn't asked.

Cowley nodded vaguely, mumbling what could pass for acquiescence. Keep trying, cousin! Activating the emotional levers of his memories was the very last thing he needed. A selective oblivion pill would have much better suited him in his current state of mind.

The list of components was of little use to him; his botanical knowledge being about nil. These Latin names didn't speak to him, except a few of them - mostly ordinary cooking spices - and one, poetically named “Angelica Archangelica”, which reminded him of either the green stems in candied fruits or an aromatic liquor used to flavour fruit salads and pastry on the continent.

Angus took one glance at his pinched features and correctly read his reluctance. “Some of those ingredients are not known by botanists; I mean, their existence is known, not their medicinal properties. Some others aren't known at all. It’s a very complex formula I made up in collaboration with a few trusted correspondents I have on the five continents; took me ten years…”

That wasn’t exactly the most reassuring of answers. Cowley scowled and Angus laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s been duly tested, for many years and by many people, me first.”

“Are you afraid of being hit by a sudden bout of amnesia? Not a very frequent affliction, that.” Cowley was genuinely perplexed; the idea seemed absurd and Angus certainly wasn’t the anxious type.

“Frequent, amnesia’s not, but common loss of memory is a disgrace that all people my age have to fear and, frankly, I don’t want to end my life too unbecomingly.”

“You must be kidding!” Cowley exclaimed with feeling, “You’re stronger than I am and there’s no incidence I know of in your family…”

“Well, I don’t want to take the risk. ‘Wait and see’ has never been my motto. Anyway, this concoction is not primarily aimed at maintaining or restoring aging people’s memory; it’s a complete tonic for the nervous system as a whole, apt to boost, repair, soothe and balance in the same time.”

“You're all set to make a fortune with it,” said Cowley with the faintest touch of irony, “given the current demographic trends in industrialised countries.”

The mild mockery was lost on his cousin, who answered with didactical sternness. “I'm not ready yet to launch it on the public market; that would mean the stuff to be made in a more stable and practical form: as pills or elixir, but it seems to be more efficient as an herb tea, taken regularly with small repeated doses throughout the day.”

“Efficient against amnesia?” Cowley’s doubts were clearly audible in his voice.

“I don't know yet; as you just said, amnesia isn't a common affliction. We’ll see if it works in the case of your young 'protégé'.”

Cowley winced. “I see, looks like I'm providing you the convenient lab rat you needed to complete your experiment protocol.”

“Not in the least,” Angus replied severely, “amnesia wasn't included in the initial protocol; I'm simply trying to help; keep that in mind.”

Bodie's coming through with the supply put an abrupt end to the two men's conversation, sparing them any further exchange of sour comments. The familiar double-act over, each part played to their mutual satisfaction, they took leave of each other very cordially.

Bart was nowhere to be seen; they were escorted to the door by the dogs, Rascal pressing against Cowley's bad leg and Rover's wet nose nudging Bodie's palm affectionately.

Cowley couldn't help lightly pinching the strings of the tall, ancient ebony harp that adorned the hall for as long as he remembered. The clear liquid sound took him back to a time, long past, when Frannie was a sweet young lass and Doug was alive. He shivered.

“Do you play the harp?” Bodie didn't look really interested.

“No; my sister did. I was supposed to play the piano (and Doug the violin, he thought but didn't say). Old family tradition” He shrugged. “There's not much of it left, I'm afraid.”

During most of the walk down to their place, he kept silent.

 

Back to the lodge Cowley made a bee-line to the Laphroig bottle (he equally hated port and brandy, which his cousin favoured at dinner).

“It's chilly here,” remarked Bodie, sniffing. “And damp too.”

“Man, you're repeating yourself; already heard that song.” Cowley was in no mood to put up with a fussing Bodie.

“Well, it is chilly and damp.” Bodie pouted, childlike, irking the older man still more.

“Yes, it is; and it's going to be so every night till mid-Summer, if not later, so you've better getting used to it... ”

“Is that a clever way of enticing me to mend the heater?” It was said with a smile meant to alleviate the tension between them and Cowley relaxed slightly.

“If you wish to. Feel free to exercise your mechanical talents tomorrow but, for the moment, content yourself with lighting the fire; we could do with a nice little blaze.”

"OK; and I could do with a nice little glass of whisky.” He cast a hopeful glance towards the bottle the other man still held, somehow reverently. Cowley glared at him.

“This is not ‘whisky’; it's a sixteen years old, pure single malt Islay.”

“Whatever, I feel like I could enjoy some of it just now.”

Cowley snorted. “Seems you're forgetting something;”

“???” the crooked eyebrow rose heavenward to the close-cropped hairline.

“Angus' herbal potion.” Cowley recalled, mercilessly.

“Oh, no!”

“Oh, yes. You promised, just a couple of hours ago, remember?”

Bodie's sigh could have blown the sails of a small ship.

“Potion first, scotch later.” Cowley’s tone was final.

“As a counter-poison?” But the humorous retort fell flat.

“Stop being childish. Start the fire while I'm making the tea,” Cowley ordered.

“If we can call this stuff tea,” Bodie commented gloomily, accepting defeat.

“Things are what we call them,” Cowley stated philosophically. “Go and fetch more wood from the shed.” He took the bag of thinly cut and crushed-to-powder dried herbs from the supplies lying on the table and went to the kitchen, not looking back, with the certainty of a man used to being obeyed. As he was.

The preparation was of the easiest kind: a simple concoction of two big spoonfuls of the powder in a small quantity of water to make a concentrated, thick liquid, which could be used fractionally all through the day by addition of more hot water. The dark, red-brown colour, too similar to dried blood, wasn't - to be frank - very appetizing, but the smell, spicy and aromatic, wasn't too vile. Cowley poured the prescribed dose into a decorative wooden bowl he had found on the shelf above the cooker (the ordinary cups and mugs looking way too small) and filled up the odd container with the strange mixture. Remembering Bodie’s exhibition with the porridge at breakfast, he added a large spoonful of honey.

When Cowley came back, a joyful fire was dancing in the hearth and Bodie was brooding. “Cheer up, laddie; this is your long-life elixir.”

Bodie tilted his head interrogatively. “Long memory, you mean?”

“Well, according to Angus, as well as boosting the memory brain cells, it has all sorts of toning, revitalising properties.”

“Yes, I remember him advising you to take it as well: Would do you a world of good, eh?”

Cowley wondered if that was to be taken as an unflattering allusion to his age or physical condition. “I'm not the patient here; my memory is only too keen, I think I can live without it.”

“Without your memory?”

“Don't be silly!” snapped Cowley, irked again by the display of childishness from the young man. Who didn’t seem to be kidding, though.

“As for me, I begin to suspect I really could live without my memory,” Bodie said softly.

Cowley strangled a sudden pang of sadness. “Out of the question, we've an agreement.”

“Yes, and our agreement included that I wouldn't be submitted to any more drugs”, Bodie reminded him with reproach. Cowley protested:

“Chemical drugs! You agreed on this innocuous herb potion.”

Bodie sniggered: “Innocuous? I don't even know what’s in it!”

“Neither do I, not precisely anyway.” Cowley’s short stock of patience was running thin. He hammered, “I trust Angus and you have to trust me.”

Bodie stood up, facing him, and looked steadily through his eyes “I'll trust you if you drink it with me, before me preferably.”

Cowley remained silent a long while. He wasn't able to find a sound reason not to comply with Bodie's wish. The young man was still staring at him expectantly. Without a word he brought the bowl to his lips and drank a large amount of its content. The taste was spicy and tangy, with a note of bitterness and, underneath, the warm mellowness of honey. It was burning hot too; so, unthinkingly, he breathed on its surface as his mother used to do with his 'good night' mug of milk. Then, still wordless, he handed it to Bodie.

Bodie took the goblet and drank the rest of the potion in a single long gulp while looking at his companion with an odd expression on his face. Suddenly he offered a broad grin.

“Just hope it's not a love philtre,” he said.

 


	6. Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be careful what you wish for...

 

There are few things more irritating than having your ears savagely assaulted by cheerful off-key whistling, while painfully striving to get fully awake on a bleak rainy day, feeling lousy and wearing a damp bathrobe. The fact that a fire in the hearth was crackling its way to a new life was not a sufficient solace.

Morosely sipping his morning tea, Cowley looked up at a beaming Bodie dangerously looming over him while holding a tray loaded with sizzling fried eggs, fried bread, fried bacon, fried everything.

“You're up bright and early today. Had a good night’s sleep?” he asked acidly.

“Yeah, better than yours, I guess.”

Cowley stared at him, silent. Bodie smiled. “I nearly came to your rescue. Do you often have these nightmares?”

“Never.” That was true – almost. It had not happened for a long time: in the aftermath of the war, as he was mourning Doug's death and another loss, no less painful for being mute. Since then, nothing, not even the bitter legacy of Korea: a grievous wound and the experience of captivity, had managed to stir the ghosts of the past from their slumber. Well, not often anyway. “Activating the emotional levers of the memory”, indeed! 

Bodie's thoughts had followed the same path. “Seems your elixir of doom worked beyond all expectations. On you at least.”

“And not on you? What have you been dreaming about?”

Bodie made a face, sheepish and smug at the same time. “You're embarrassing me.”

“I've no interest in your lubricious fantasies. However, if you can recognise the woman... ”

“Did I say it was a woman?”

Cowley glared at him. “Whoever. Who was it?”

Bodie sobered. “Yes, it was a woman. No, I didn't recognise her. You know: one female's private parts look like any other female's private parts.”

“Mind your language, man!” Cowley was still shocked in spite of all these years spent in mainly male company. He hated curses and obscenities equally.

“What? I was very polite. I didn't use any dirty words.”

True enough, 'private parts' sounded almost quaint; at least he was spared 'pussy' and 'cunt' or whatever the latest fad in porn slang was. He scolded himself. Who was he to think he had any right to censure a twenty-four-years-old boy's sexual urges?

“Sit down and have your tea; it’s getting lukewarm.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Before Cowley could ask, he added: “The elixir of doom. Am I not supposed to take it before breakfast?”

“Whenever you like, providing it’s at least three times a day. Eat first; all that greasy stuff will taste awful when cold.” As the young man was complying earnestly, he corrected: “By the way, it’s a herbal tea, not an elixir”.

“Whatever, it's a drug.”

“You seem to tolerate it well.” He bit his lip briefly, expecting a repeat of the too easy retort 'better than you, apparently' and felt grateful when it didn't come. He hastily offered “The taste's not too bad.”

“I don’t dislike it. And it makes me feel good.” Lucky you, thought Cowley.

Still focused on his plate, Bodie cast a sideways glance at him. “You wouldn’t have another try at it, would you?”

“Not on your life!”

“Too bad, since I said I’d drink it on one condition only, that you’d share it with me.”

“Only the first time.”

“Hmm, I don’t remember any such restriction.”

“But you just said you liked the effect it has on you. And you must know by now there is no risk drinking it.” Cowley was annoyed to hear a hint of desperation in his voice.

“I know nothing of the sort. I don’t know anything about the possible long-term side-effects. Anyway you promised”.

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

They were at stalemate now. Ridiculous. There were any number of actions Cowley would be able and willing to undertake in order to reach his goals but forcing hot tea down the throat of a brawny young scoundrel wasn’t one of them. He made a last attempt: “I'll share it with you once more today but only once and, if that spoils my sleep again tonight, I won't do it a third time.” He pleaded, shamelessly: “You can't expect me to lie awake in pain while you sleep like a baby and dream about strange women.”

Bodie laughed. “I'm not that cruel.” His eyes had a slightly slanted curve when he laughed and his nostrils flared a little, like a skittish, unbroken yearling shunning the bridle. It made him look more dangerous than cheerful. It suited him. “If you take it with me morning and midday, I'm willing to spare you at night.”

So, once again the deal was done and in the wee bastard's favour. Cowley gave up and drank half the content of the wooden bowl when they shared it, minutes later. It felt sweeter and less strange than the first time; the balsamic scent was soothing, comforting even.

He went to the window and breathed a whiff of cool air. “What would you like to do now?” The sky had cleared, the rain had stopped; there was a timid rainbow over the hills.  
   
  
Drinking such nectar from a tin tumbler was borderline sacrilegious. Wishing he could admire its rich, purple shade, Cowley smelled his wine with a reverence almost equal to that he would have awarded a great Islay malt. Unlike port, a really good wine was a treat he could appreciate once in a while. And, sure, cousin MacLaren was a true expert in matters of vintage: this venerable “Hospices de Beaune” 1949 was a pure marvel. Which would have deserved crystal and fine linen, not a rough, silt-smelling plank.  
   
For they were now seated at each end of an old and decayed looking (but, hopefully, still safe) wooden boat and the bottle was the last remnant of a copious picnic. Bodie’s idea, of course: a picnic on wet grass and slippery gravel, under dripping trees or in the shelter of a dim shack was not exactly the kind of fun a semi-crippled old soldier would seek after. But Bodie had been respectfully persistent and had suggested the boat as their refuge. Not very comfortable, assuredly, but pleasant now that the sun was shining and a light breeze had replaced the morning rain.

Cowley's mood was fast improving in accordance with the weather and the good fare, not to mention the good booze. Or was it the potion reversing its effects eventually? MacFarlane had hinted something about a “purgative” phase of emotional turmoil preceding the “re-equilibrating” process. He could see nothing remotely “emotional” on the placid face of his young companion. As for him, he could only hope last night’s spooky performance had exhausted the “purgation” part, allowing his – still steady – mind-control to push back the spooks to the bat-cave where they belonged.

The Burgundy was a nice addition anyway, he nodded to himself; this bottle had been shaken and carried around enough: it just cried out to be drunk. And so it had been, with due respect. From him at least.

The wine, as it stood, was not the only cause of his current state of bliss: it was for Cowley an unmitigated pleasure to watch Bodie rowing and sweating while he lay back, savouring his drink. Though, when you looked at it more keenly, the man wasn't sweating, actually, but moving gracefully, with smooth, effortless efficiency. The broad shoulders and strong arms, rising and lowering rhythmically, were a pleasant sight to behold from his half-reclining position. The tough and creaky leather cushion on which he was resting smelt of mould, mice droppings and fox piss; except for this, everything was perfect.

Once again Bodie read his thoughts. “It's just as well the motor-boat wasn't working properly after all; I needed the workout; was getting rusty”.

“You'll have all the exercise you want if we go fly-fishing for trout in the river. But to get to the best spots, on the other side of the loch, the motor boat would be more convenient.”

“I can fix it, no bother; I'll do it this evening if we're not back too late.”

“Don’t forget there’s no power in the boat house.”

“Don't need it; it's mostly about deep cleaning and oiling, but I need light of course. Hmm, I think I'll take the motor to the lodge.”

“That will be an exercise, indeed!”

“Easier than dragging the smaller boat from the lodge to the pier.”

“We could use the trailer. However, the track’s overgrown and the wee boat’s not really big enough for two grown men and their kit.”

“Really? So, why did you made me clean it yesterday?”

“Ah, son; you looked like you were sorely wanting a little healthy physical exercise. You just admitted as much. Idleness is the mother of all vices, or so they say.”

Bodie sighed in disgust. “I can think of better ways to spend my time. And, speaking of which, what are we doing now?”

“Are you tired of the loch already?” He let his gaze wander to the majestic landscape around them: he wouldn't get tired of it, should he live a thousand years. No need to share this bout of national pride with the young scamp, though. “Bored? Isn’t the view spectacular enough?”

“It's magnificent, all right,” Bodie agreed, sounding indifferent “It's just we've been here for two hours and a half, going round in circles.”

“Not quite. We had lunch. And I must remind you this was your suggestion. Why I complied is beyond me!” The brat had successfully managed to spoil the mood.

Said brat flashed him an impish look: “I know why. The magic potion was actually meant for you, not me; see: it’s made you almost civil.” The smirk widened into a grin. Blinding.

Cowley blinked and swallowed back the biting retort he had on the tip of his tongue. He had a hunch, experience fed, that a direct run-in was not the key to the inner recesses of Bodie’s psyche.

“You might be right,” he said flatly, “so enjoy it while it lasts.” He sipped the last drop of his wine. “What exactly have you in mind?”  
  
“It's too late or too soon to start fishing in this area, especially now we’ve put all the little water people on red alert. We could still have a try, so long as you don’t count on fish for dinner.”

But Bodie’s interest had shifted back to the motor boat, insisting he should have another look at it while there was still enough light in the boat house, as it was poorly lit through two high, narrow windows. As expected, the damned engine had persisted in its non-cooperative ways, showing there was more to it than a need for deep cleaning and oiling. The necessary tools weren’t there, so the repair had to be postponed.

All the same, why so eager a concern from the man for the only fast means of transport available in the vicinity? Cowley stifled the familiar rush of suspicion and firmly reminded himself he had decided to trust Bodie, if only for the simple reason he had no working alternative.

And yet, he unthinkingly wrapped his fingers around the small metallic bottle he still kept in his trouser pocket: a nifty medical device, meant for wild animals in cages, which in a split second, could eject a needle and deliver its load of stun-serum; a nasty thing he hoped never to use again.

Unaware of this turmoil, Bodie was rubbing his dirty hands with a dirtier rag, and whistling more off-key than ever. Cowley hardly recognized the atrocious rendition of “Auld Lang Syne”.

“Stop murdering that innocent tune, Bodie, and drop that filthy thing.”

“But there’s nothing to wash yourself with in this shack: no towel, no soap, not even a bucket of water,” Bodie complained, in the irritating childish tone he too often affected.

“The place is seldom used, Bodie. Actually I'm even surprised the engine had been left on the boat.” Waving to the open door, he scoffed. “I can't offer you the scented soap and lush towel you require for your creature comforts but, regarding the water, I can see plenty of it outside.”

“The silt round the pier?”

“The water in the river, pure enough to be the abode of many happy, healthy trout.”

“And, gee-whizz, quite tasty they are too, I’ll give you that.” Bodie winked, mood changing again from cloudy to sunny as quickly as a Scottish sky, “I'd gladly have another go at them.”

“Not by your method, Bodie.”

“Okay, as a matter of fact, I’ll vote for fly-fishing if I'm given a choice; no need for a boat. And that's sport.”

“I agree to that. Maybe tomorrow morning. Not sure we've the proper bait though,” he mused. “We could go back to the lodge by the river bank; it's a much longer way round than the path but it makes for a pleasant stroll and I can show you the best fishing spots.”  
 

‘River’ was a big word for the turbulent stream tumbling and cascading down from the heights of the mountain. Only a short length of it had enough depth for a flat-bottomed boat, and not all the time. But there and a little higher up the fish abounded.

To get to the bank they had to struggle through a thick tangle of bushes and bracken, which had overgrown the one-time path. “It wasn't as dense last summer,” Cowley mumbled, “Bart used to trim it from time to time.”

“I guess nobody is getting any younger with every passing year,” Bodie quipped, which earned him a baleful glare from the older man. “I mean,” he added hastily, “this fellow, Bart, looks even older than your cousin; You can't expect him to go hiking up and down the hills every two weeks, just to keep the path to the river free.”

“You don't know the old goat, and Angus is just as bad; they'd outlast you.”

“You're kidding.”

“They would, both of them, and so would I,” snapped Cowley, instantly regretting his outburst. The look of knowing indulgence on the boy's face was more hurtful than jibes.

Resolutely, he sank deeper into the rising tide of shrubbery and had the satisfaction of seeing that his young companion wasn't managing much better than he was in spite of his own game leg. Put to rest for a couple of hours in the boat, his knee was unusually compliant.

His good fortune lasted exactly two minutes. The morning downpour had in places turned the path into a slippery mix of sludge and rotting leaves. Skidding suddenly on a patch of mud, he tripped on a root, his foot caught in its snare, and dived forward, unable to hang on to the entwined twigs and branches that snapped and failed his grip. In the span of a split second, the time stretched as he desperately tried to wrench his body in order to spare his bad leg. He knew what was coming before he hit the ground. A white flame of pain seared through his brain, tearing along his nerves from the top of his skull to the tip of his toes, and back. Then, black out.

When he opened his eyes again, a blurry figure was looming over him far above, in a mist of dimly twinkling fireflies.

“Don't move.” The voice was dulled too, sounding muffled and distant. “I must check nothing’s broken.”

“N... no, leave it, I'm alright,” he croaked weakly, wondering why he felt obliged to offer the conventional crap. He was far from being alright, of course: he had landed on his hip, not his leg, thank God, but the violence of his fall had shaken it hard, then the rebound as he rolled over had slammed his knee, his bad knee, against an outcrop of rock. The pain had been severe enough to make him faint and was now fast coming back, barely mitigated. He gritted his teeth. The greyish mist was dissipating and he could see, more distinctly, the worried and disapproving face of his rescuer“Nonsense; don't move and let me check.”

Cowley bristled at the tone of command in the youth's voice; even in his current predicament of dimmed awareness, he resented the irreverence. Besides, he’d always hated being groped and pawed about, whatever the reason or the circumstances. He'd got his fair share of it while in the military. To suffer it now from a cheeky kid, unresisting, wasn't an option: he tried to sit up by resting on his good leg, wedging his left foot against a big stem and was swallowed at once by a wave of sharp pain. His foot now! He slumped back down in sheer misery.

“You, old fool!” Bodie exclaimed, affectionately.

He let go. Dazzled, he sensed strong, knowing hands unbuckling his belt, unbuttoning his shirt and lifting it open, pulling down his trousers, roaming along his limbs: swiftly first, then slowly, carefully, gently pressing on his chest, shoulders, hips, legs and feet, searching for signs of any abnormal torsion, bump or swelling. They were warm, skilful, healing hands. It hurt. It felt good. He loathed himself for feeling so good under the light but steady kneading of firm, rough fingers. It had been so long since the last time he had allowed himself to have male hands laid on him, working to give him pleasure…

Bodie stopped just before it all became very embarrassing.

“At first glance you don't seem to have anything broken. Yet your knee is getting pretty swollen and so’s your ankle. And your left arm is badly bruised. You should have them X-rayed, just to be sure.”

“That's out of the question."

“Don't be daft!”

“Don't be rude!”

“I only want to help: I'm not a doctor and you need to be taken care of by somebody more competent than I am.”

“Angus is perfectly competent in those matters, I'll call him with the RT.”

“We have to get back to the lodge first!”

That was the sorry fact. There was a steep hill to climb and it wasn't easy even for a fit walker. And he had now two gamy legs. Cowley felt suddenly terribly helpless... and very naked. At least he had recovered enough strength to get dressed on his own. Or so he thought. But simply sitting up and lifting himself from the ground to adjust his trousers needed a bodily support; with only his good knee and the opposite elbow left to use he could manage, but barely. However his injuries made his movements pretty awkward and, after two failed attempts, he had to accept Bodie's help. Standing up was quite another story. Jaw clenched in angry resolution, clutching Bodie's arm ferociously, he tried to rise by resting on his sound foot, but his knee yielded and he slumped into the young man's embrace. Bodie hauled him up and held him firmly.

“You stubborn old git! What do you think you're doing?”

“We must go back; I have to walk.”

“No way! Your ankle may not be broken but you’ve probably sprained it, and your other leg isn't working either.”

“There's no choice.”

“Of course there is! Ever heard about what's called a 'fireman's lift'?”

God forbid! That really would be the final blow.

“No, no and no! Anyway you're not able to carry me, that way or otherwise.”

“Ah? Just try me!Staring up blankly at the overhanging foliage for a couple of minutes didn't bring any better ideas. Sending the boy alone to the farm for help? Or to the lodge as to fetch the RT? He was fairly sure Angus and Bart would be in town for the week’s errands, not forgetting a stop at the local pub, as they used to do every Saturday, and wouldn't be back before dinner time. That would mean he had to spend long hours lying on that muddy ground in his now wet clothes. A sprained ankle was bad, but pneumonia was worse. As stubborn and prideful that George Cowley could be, stupid or unreasonable he was not.

So; he wasn't going to escape this. “Didn't you say not long ago you were getting rusty and you needed physical exercise?”

“Absolutely!” Bodie's smile was radiant.

“Well, it’s a case of 'be careful what you wish for'.”

“Don't fret; I won't let you down.”

“In whatever sense you mean, I’ll take you at your word.”

“You can.”

“Let it be so, then”. In Cowley's mind it was the gloomy equivalent of “Alea jacta est”.

 


	7. Lust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unrequited lust

  
  
“Try me.” he'd said.

No doubt, the man could deliver. In a swift move Cowley was hauled up by strong arms over broad shoulders. Suddenly he was taken back to another place, another time, when another man, as bold and brash as this one, and bigger, had risked everything and his life to get him free and safe from harm, a man who now was buried in his own skin, having lost everything but his life. He wondered what it was that was rooted so deep in some men's hearts to grow such loyalty; and whatever it was, if this was in Bodie's too.

He came back to the present. Bodie was progressing cautiously but steadily. There was a safer path along the river bank, free from branches and roots, if not from rocks and stones. The slope was steep though, and again Cowley marveled at the uncommon strength of body and will the young man had in him. Feeling so powerless under another man's total control was at the same time frightening and exhilarating. He didn't know whether he should fight it or enjoy it. To his utmost humiliation he was obliged to admit that his treacherous senses, at odds with the sounder part of his mind, were only craving for more bodily contact, more physical intimacy. The nervous tension was almost painful, overwhelming any other sensation from his bruised limbs.

“Need a break, don't you?” He was gently laid down on the ground, on a grassy spot, his back resting against a rock. He breathed deeply and looked up. Bodie had removed his own jacket and rolled up the felt-lined leather garment into a thick padding, to provide him a convenient cushion. “Phew! It's hot.” Bodie was really sweating now, his brow shining with droplets of perspiration which ran freely, like unnoticed tears, over his grinning face. Yet, he wasn't out of breath, he didn't even look tired, just a little stiff. He sat close by and stretched himself to the brink, voluptuously, like a big domestic cat playfully responding to his master's caresses. Cowley turned his gaze away and swallowed, mouth dry. Weird how far an imagination let loose can drive a complacent mind to wander into the realm of fantasy. Sick, he thought, that's sick.

Bodie considered him attentively. “Are you okay?”

“Yes.” Cowley snapped.

“You don't look it.”

“What d'you think? That the best I can wish for is to be roughly manhandled by a muscular lout?”

“You don't even think what you say,” was the dignified reply of a serene Bodie.

“You read minds now?”

“It's a survival skill.”

“What?” Cowley almost jumped, forgetting his disabilities, and choked. ”What did you just say?”

Bodie frowned, looking perplexed. ”OK, ok; I don't know where that came from, really. Whatever, it's not hard to guess what's in your mind now; all this stuff about my past, as a mercenary and arms runner... but see, you've to admit all my information comes from you.”

”I admit nothing of the sort,” grumbled Cowley, “I only grant you the benefit of the doubt.”

”Thank you so much. Couldn't be more gracious; I wonder why I don't actually manhandle you a little roughly.”

”Because you know where your true interests lie.”

The way back to the lodge was more of the same, except that Cowley managed to get a better hold on his gusts of unrequited lust. They still had to stop a few times and Bodie made a show of displaying the most exquisite gentleness and solicitude in his new role of caregiver.

He carefully laid down his live burden on the bunk and spread a plaid over him before setting about rekindling the fire in the hearth.

“It's hard and it's damp,” grumbled Cowley.

“So I told you, didn't I?”

“Well, you were right.”

“Glad to hear you say it for once.” Bodie's voice was devoid of grudge. “You're wet and you're stiff; what you need first is a nice hot bath.”

“In case you hadn't noticed, we're not in a 5-star hotel.”

“I saw an old tub in the shed. It's rusted but, hopefully, not to the point of leaking.”

“Don't bother; all I need is to call Angus.”

“Is he a medic? He didn't say.”

“No, just a living medical library, but he's perfectly able to perform first aid.”

“So am I.”

“If you don't mind, I'll rather rely on my cousin's skills and experience, which I've good reason to trust.”

“As you please. But do you really want to subject yourself to your cousin's scrutiny in that pitiful state? You'll freak him out.”

Cowley gulped at the sheer audacity of the words. However they gave him matter for reflection. He could easily figure how he’d look in another man's eyes: bruised, battered, rumpled, covered with mud, face and hands scratched from their harsh encounter with thorns and stones; the last thing he wished was to appear that defeated in front of Angus. No way though he was going to concede as much to the young rascal.

“Stop the insolence and get me the RT.”

“I do, I do, Mister Bwana.”

Cowley's glare would have frozen embers.

Talking with Angus a few minutes later, he briefly explained the situation, as reassuringly as he could (he didn't want to have Angus and Bart rushing down the steep forest path, at risk of breaking their old necks: one casualty a day was quite enough). With some extra information from Bodie, Angus agreed it was not a case of emergency and they would come after dinner, with a fresh batch of cookies from Martha and the first aid kit.

“There's one in the medicine cabinet.”

“Too old; haven't replaced it in ages. I'll bring a new herb balm of my invention.” “Would've been surprised if you hadn’t,” mumbled Cowley, off the mike. “In the meantime,” Angus sounded more avuncular than ever, “have a rest, take a generous dose of my potion and... ” he paused, “I remember there's this old tub in the tool shed, if it's not falling to pieces, I'd recommend you a long hot bath to relax your strained muscles.”

Bodie sniggered impudently. Cowley suddenly felt too exhausted to fight back. In his current condition, the prospect of a hot bath was too appealing to be denied only for reasons of impropriety. He had suffered worse in his war time; besides, he and Bodie belonged to completely separate universes; it was not as if he would risk meeting the boy later in the circles he used to move in: at his club or on the golf links, among his old friends or colleagues.

“Happy to be right again? I just wanted to spare you the chore, but if you're so eager to serve, I won't discourage your budding vocation; I have to warn you my income doesn't allow me to employ a full-time butler.”

  
With his usual efficiency, Bodie had brought the tub to the small bathroom, where there was barely room enough for it, and in no time he had scrubbed it thoroughly. .

“Guess what? It's not rusted, just a tad dented and very dirty.”

“No wonder, it's zinc; doesn't rust.”

“Very solid stuff: soon, it will be good as new.”

“So will I,” Cowley replied, “good 'ole-time' quality!” He flashed his guest a pinched half-smile.

Bodie smiled back, visibly happy with the renewed cordiality between them. “But now I'm filthy; need to wash myself. If you don't mind I'll have a quick shower first. I won't use much hot water.”

Cowley heard him singing softly, not off-key this time, with a pleasant light baritone. He didn't know the tune but it seemed to him the words were German. Was he imagining things? Then the noise of running water from the tank muffled the sound of the voice.

A few minutes later Bodie was standing at his side, and all sensible thoughts fled his mind like a flight of frightened sparrows, leaving him dazed, gaping at the sight: save for a scanty made-up loincloth, loosely wrapped across his hips, the man was naked. Plainly, gloriously naked. The glow from the hearth cast a rosy shade on the pale, hairless skin of his broad chest; sleek and glossy skin, shining with droplets he was wiping off casually with another towel. There was hair on the long muscled legs though, and a thin line of black curls growing down from the navel to a lower spot, barely covered by the loose cloth. Cowley tried not to look at that hidden spot, not to think of that forbidden spot. And failed.

“Go get your dressing gown if you don't want to add pneumonia to amnesia.”

“OK Granny!”

But when Bodie came back with the robe on, it was worse. The young man was leaning over him close, too close. And the ample garment, which lacked the tie, was wide open, letting him see lower, down the trail of pubic hair to the base of a notable bulge, distinctly outlined by the light material.

And, speaking of bulges… Cowley held his breath, feeling the heat of blood rushing to his nether parts, fearing the telling signs he would be unable to conceal once he had been stripped of his clothes. Breathing slowly didn't help. There was nothing to do but bite the bullet and wait for the flood in his rebellious member to recede.

Being better settled on the bunk than he was on the stony ground by the river, he managed to undress more or less on his own, with some help from Bodie to take off his shoes and pull his trousers off. In spite of the blazing fire, the residual dampness pervading the room gripped him. He shivered. Bodie wrapped him in the old plaid and the dust made him sneeze.

“You're catching a cold; we'd better hurry up with the bath now, the water was just at the right temperature two minutes ago.”

“We? What do you mean 'we'?”

“You need me to help you getting in the tub,”

“I don't need you any longer. Stop playing Florence Nightingale with me.”

“Come on, you're in no condition to walk.”

“Let me be the judge of it, would you?” Cowley stood up and took a step forward. His leg yielded and instinctively he clutched Bodie's arm. The other's move was too swift for him to resist: grabbed under the armpits and knees, he was lifted and carried to the bathroom before he could protest. A fierce sentiment of ridicule and resentment assailed him but did nothing to ease his physical discomfort. Once again he was overwhelmed by a surge of that revolting bout of craving for the man's male strength and dominance, a feeling he would never acknowledge, never mind willingly submit to it.

He was now seated on the lid of the toilet, under the slightly derisive scrutiny of his self-appointed minder. As infuriating as it was, there was no way he could get into the high-sided tub without help.

“Do you intend to keep your underwear on?”

“Aye; I do.”

“That will be most inconvenient.”

“And it’s none of your business.”

Bodie laughed. “Are you in the habit of bathing with your pants on?”

“Only when I'm forced to bathe in public.”

“What public? It's just me.”

“So what? Have you lost every sense of modesty? If you ever had any.”

“Never with men.”

Which was, of course, the core of the matter. Though, thinking of it, never before had he had to take such precautions with other men, either in the inevitable promiscuity of the army or among his former colleagues and subordinates in the services... except in one case, and the need for modesty hadn't lasted much because... Ach! Stop the nonsense; that memory was anything but safe in his current predicament.

Eventually he took off his undershirt and kept his briefs on, wondering if this wasn’t in itself a sufficiently incriminating evidence of his illicit yearnings. To his short-lived relief, Bodie seemed not to have noticed anything. Or was he pretending? He had conspicuously averted his gaze as Cowley was, rather awkwardly, trying to get out of his vest, and had stepped aside for the time it took, tactfully not offering to give him a hand, (or, it could be, repelled by the sight of an older man's narrow chest and slack flesh?). But then, he had taken hold of him from behind, grabbing him by the waist to lift him over the edge of the tub into the warm water.

For a moment, which was in the same time too brief and too long, Cowley had sensed those strong muscled arms circling his chest and hugging him tight; he had felt the man’s bare skin pressing against his own bare back, felt the light rubbing of hard nipples on his ribs, the touch of rough fingers on his stomach and, lower, the tickling of soft curled hair on his loins, Light-headed, he had melted in the heat of the other's body, in its smell and moisture. It was an instant of sharp, searing bliss.

The contact of a sponge on the nape of his neck and the grip of a hand under his left arm brought him back to reality.

“Get off! What the heck are you doing?”

“Scraping the mud you've got in your hair.”

“Damn it! Had I asked you to do anything?”

“Sorry; thought you needed the support: just a moment ago I had the impression you were fainting.”

Cowley's heart skipped a beat. He had noticed. “You were wrong. Get off and give me the sponge. I may be bruised, but I'm not crippled. I'm still able to wash myself on my own.”

“I’m not so sure. You just had a kind of dizzy spell; don't deny, I saw it.”

“You were crushing me. Couldn't breathe. It's over now.”

“Don't be unreasonable: the tub’s narrow and your right arm's numb. I noticed when you were pulling off your vest.”

You notice too much, thought Cowley. “Don't bother. I can manage.”

“Eh! I can manage better! And I'm very good at back-rubs.”

“And at being stubborn and cheeky?” He sighed.

Bodie took it as permission. He started lathering Cowley's back with the sponge, then went on massaging his impatient patient's neck and shoulders.

Cowley's exasperation, by distracting him from the more physical focus, had slightly alleviated the painful tension he felt in the most sensitive of his bodily appendages. But not for long. The back-rub was straying to the front and he didn't find any acceptable reason to protest. The 'pants-on' bathing was ridiculous enough (and revealing enough) without playing the prude like a wee lassie trying to keep her swain at a safe distance while dancing at the village fair. Meanwhile the ill-placed blood pressure was becoming positively unbearable, bordering on sheer torture. And nobody is bound to stand torture when the good of the country is not at stake.

His only relief was knowing that, from his position behind, and thanks to the relative dimness of the bathroom, Bodie couldn't see much anything of what was going on under the surface of the water. But could he guess? It was difficult to believe the young man could be that innocent. As if to belie such a wishful thinking, unexpectedly a prying hand sneaked under the brim of Cowley's boxers, to spread more soap. He jumped, taut as a bow-string and rock-hard. “Stop that!”

Bodie's hand withdrew. “Sorry, your pants were in the way.”

“I think I can get undressed without your assistance.” Cowley said, icily. And Pete knows how difficult it is to speak icily when your blood is steaming and your crotch on the point of bursting.

“Don't you want... ?” Bodie's voice was inviting but uncertain.

“I want to be left alone!”

“You still need me to help you climb out of the tub.”

“Out! Now! Get away, for God's sake!”

“OK, I'll come back in ten minutes. You mustn’t stay there too long; the water’s getting cold.”

Bodie skirted round the tub and stood in front of him, looking worried. He had got rid of the impeding dressing gown, probably from the start, and the loincloth towel had slipped down to the floor. No modesty, indeed. He was as naked as a new-born and near as chaste. To Cowley's final humiliation, he showed no sign of outward interest, other than a friendly, compassionate gaze. The beautiful Greek statue, worthy of Phidias' chisel, was cold and smooth as marble.

He left the room. Cowley took a deep breath. He had got ten minutes. Enough for a life-saving release. Not enough for purging his system of the deadly venom those last hours had instilled in his veins.  


When Angus arrived two hours later, followed by his basket-carrying, ordinance-turned-servant companion, they found a bouncy and busy Bodie trying to cheer up a gloomy Cowley with offerings of food and drinks, which were impatiently pushed aside.

“We're just in time; Martha's baked two different pies especially for you, and heaps of cookies.”

“We've eaten already.” said Cowley curtly.

“Trifles,” retorted Bodie, “Only some beans on toast; you've hardly nibbled one.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Speak for yourself; I can have a pie.”

“You can have both, even.” Cowley sounded as disgruntled as he was, and he was in no mood to feign amiability; in no need either: Angus could never guess the real cause of his sourness. His current physical condition was reason enough for it.

“You not eating Martha's pies? I don't even want to hear the sound of such a sacrilegious utterance!”

Cowley cast him a scornful glare. There were times when he decidedly hated his cousin's studied cheerfulness. Then he noticed Bart's look of disappointment. At the moment, the old man's bearing showed his age and tiredness only too clearly, in spite of his pretense of enduring vigour.

“I may have a little bit of it... Eh, not so much, Bart! Thanks.”

Eventually he ate half of everything. The day had been trying, to say the least, and the picnic on the boat at lunch time was not even a memory any longer. When Cowley asked for a dram of scotch, Angus reminded him of the herb-tea.

“To hell with your damned potion!”

“Oh, cousin! Such language!”

“The blame's on you; your crazy concoction spoils my sleep; that's the only effect I noticed.”

“It's just transient; it may unsettle you a little the first days because it stimulates some specific brain areas, but... ”

“None of my brain areas is in need of being stimulated, thanks. I accepted this only to convince your reluctant patient that we weren't attempting to poison him, remember.”

“I'm convinced,” interfered Bodie, “I rather like your potion; taste's weird but it makes me feel good.”

Angus looked perplexed and, for once, opted for openness. “I must think more about it. I know the effects may vary a lot depending on the subject's specifics but, honestly, I was expecting the reverse.” He shook his head. “Don't worry, the results have always been positive in the long term.”

“I feel great.” Bodie said.

“I wish I could say as much,” Cowley said, “I thought this medicine was supposed to have a soothing effect?”

“It will have soon, after the equilibrating process is over. Don't stop the treatment, either of you. This complex is also perfect to counter trauma and shocks.”

“I'm not in shock and don't need any treatment, other than a dressing on my leg; on my two legs,” Cowley added with resentment, “quite a simple and easy task.”

Which Angus proceeded to perform. After assessing his cousin's wounds, he confirmed no bone had been broken and declared his ankle has been badly twisted, but not sprained, apparently.

“Just renew the herb balm morning and night and have a complete rest for two or three days; it will heal nice and quickly.”

“Hope so, we'd planned fishing for trout in the river; I was ready to show your cousin I could beat him at it any time, anywhere.”

“But not anyhow; I want nothing of your odd tricks, if you see what I mean?”

“Oh boys, think I must let you have fun together now, it's getting late.”

Just as Angus was leaving, Cowley remembered the infected machete wound Bodie had brought back from Africa. He wasn't wearing a bandage any more but the flesh stitched by the surgeon less than four weeks ago couldn't have healed fully so fast, and the scar on his back should still be quite tender. With belated remorse, Cowley realised how painful carrying a body his size and weight in a fireman lift should have felt to a wounded man.

In spite of Bodie's protests Angus checked the reddish spot on his upper back and found the scar clean and sound, though a little swollen and smarting.

“I've nothing at hand now to soothe the inflammation but we'll see tomorrow at the farm, right? He turned to Cowley: “Really you should have told me the lad had been injured not so long ago.”

Cowley bit his lip: “I should have, but I had a lot of other things in mind,”

Angus scoffed: “You truly are a selfish bastard, cousin!”

Which summed up pretty well what Cowley was thinking of himself in that instant.

 


	8. Lull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to normal, or is it just the calm before the tempest?

  
Whether as a result of the potion or not, Cowley spent a second restless night, overcome this time, not by fading, harmless spooks, but by an endless stream of too vivid visions of naked bodies and alluring, sinewy limbs: long tanned legs, broad creamy chest and shoulders and, just in-between, the very centre of his worst temptation. He woke up moist and sticky. It was not just sweat.

He felt sick. It was the cusp of dawn and the loud warbling of mating birds outside kept him awake and tense. He didn't want to get up so early. He didn't want to get up at all. The day ahead would be long and fraught with pitfalls. He wondered if he would be able to get out of his bed on his own anyway. The idea of calling Bodie for help was abhorrent to him. And yet he would have to get up and walk to the bathroom, to wash himself. He felt dirty.

It was quite dim. The room was still lit by moonlight. Through the window he had a view on the flock of hills far away, their bulky rumps raising high over the loch. He caught sight of the curious shape of a ruined chapel, a black figure sharply outlined against the deep dark blue of the sky. It reminded him it was Sunday today. Either in London or in Scotland, he always tried to attend the Sunday service, every time it was possible. Praying used to give him peace and comfort. This time, it didn't seem to work. He wasn't fit to it: too strung up, disquiet, unclean. It was as if the rise of carnal passion had erected a wall, high and broad, disjointing his earthly being from the upper part of his... No, he wouldn't think about his soul at that moment.

Whatever; he needed to get clean; physically at least. And he had that old walking stick at hand, close to the bed post. He rose up and sat for a while, propped up by cushions against the bed-head. A first tentative move told him his “bad” knee was functioning again. He'd had to avoid using his opposite foot but it seemed he could make, ever so cautiously, the few steps he had to walk to get to the bathroom.

And then, he was under the hot spray of the shower at last, sitting on a stool that wasn't meant for that purpose and washing off from his skin all remnants of the night's abuses.

“What are you doing in here? Why didn't you call for me? You're hurting yourself again.”

“Am I allowed to be left alone for ten minutes? Go back to bed!”

“You should be in your bed, Angus said... ”

“Leave Angus out of this; he's not my doctor, nor is he yours.”

“I have to take care of you while you're ill, I have.”

“Fine, if you want to make yourself useful, go and fetch me a dressing gown; the one in the bathroom is damp.” He anticipated Bodie's question: “There must be another one in the bedroom cupboard.”

A suggestion he had reason to regret when he got back to his bedroom and saw the sheets had been changed. No way the lad could have not noticed... He froze, shrinking inside, his guts in knots. Shame, there was no other word: pure, unmitigated shame. This last blow was the shock he needed to recover, if not his dignity, at least his sanity. All his previous obsession with the young man's sinful appeal, seemed to vanish into thin air, leaving him cold and dry, back to his old self.

He suffered Bodie's attentions with an equal impassiveness, inward and outward. Yes, it was odd to see the other man kneeling in front of him to put a new bandage on his ankle while spreading a thick layer of the herb balm, but there was no longer the tease of that tingling in his groin, or the forewarning shivers along his spine. He felt safe now, in spite of the closeness of those keen eyes, straying from their task at floor level to focus on a higher spot, which was not his knee. He didn't want to see what was lurking behind those smiling eyes, not even to know whether the desire that had burned him had ever been shared, if only for the briefest moment, at some point during the whole drama. All of it had been a bad dream, and it was over. His concern ought to be for the future, the recovery of Bodie's lost memory, first and foremost.

He had some time to ponder the situation. Bodie had fixed breakfast, copious and fattening, as he liked it, then had left for a short call to the farm, just to have his own wound dressed and to take more specific medication from Angus. He was back for lunch. If he had had any words with the old man about the soon-to-come psychotherapy sessions, he didn't tell.

Cowley cut short a joyful babbling about cat-chasing dogs, an irate Martha and a stolen sausage. “When are you starting your work with Angus?”

A cloud swept over the boyish face. “Not decided yet.”

“How come? We talked of Monday; it's tomorrow.”

“Seems Angus hasn't made his mind about exactly which program he wants to use on me, yet.”

“Curious; I've never found him uncertain or insecure about a decision he had to take before.”

“He said you needed me to help you until you're able to walk safely.”

_Ah no!_   “Nonsense. I can move well enough with the stick. And what could I do that would be so hazardous in this place, anyway?”

“A lot of things, actually. Besides the risk of falling, just walking, with or without a stick could be harmful to your knee, or to your ankle.”

“Indoors, going from the living room to the kitchen or from the bedroom to the bathroom? That would be quite exerting, indeed!”

“Precisely; Angus knows you well; he told me I had to see that you took a proper rest.”

Cowley snapped. “Leave it! Last time I needed a minder, I was still in my nappies.”

Bodie laughed gaily. “Oooh! I can see you as a baby, and not in nappies, no: just out of your bath, all wet and naked, scrambling on all fours, or sprawled on a fur carpet, with your pretty plump and pinkie wee buttocks. What a picture!” He stopped, looking warily at his host. “Sorry, it was a joke; I didn't mean any offense.” As Cowley wasn't replying, he hastily added: “Eh! Watch out; I don't know what to do in a case of apoplexy.”

As a matter of fact, Cowley was unable to utter a word. Red in the face and turning to purple, he was visibly in dire danger of suffocation. “You've seen me wet and naked”, he said at last when he had recovered his voice, speaking in a low, grim tone, “though not down to my buttocks and I'm quite aware the picture wasn't pretty.”

Bodie seemed disconcerted. “What d'you mean? You don't look so bad, for a man your age.”

Cowley exploded: “A man my age! What age do you think I am?”

“Don't know, fifty something?”

“I'm forty eight!”

Bodie had the good grace to show some embarrassment. “Well, fifty's not so far from the mark; I didn't say you looked old… Actually I think you're in a fairly good physical condition.”

“For a man my age?”

“For somebody who hasn't undertaken any serious drill for a long time.”

“Not for so long, but I'm not fit; thank you for reminding me of it.”

“Ah, I see you're fishing for compliments: you won't get any from me. I simply reckon you seem to have had more muscle than you have now. I guess your bad knee is hampering you?”

“You guess right. And it's getting worse; I could end up a cripple some day.”

“How dramatic! You'll have the appropriate surgery some day and you'll be fine, that's all.”

Cowley didn't want to discuss his medical condition with the lad. How had he been led to get this far? “Whatever,” he stated sternly; “I'm not crippled yet; I can manage on my own. Don't bother.”

“It's no bother; I rather like being with you.”

Cowley gasped. Once again he wondered how the quarrel had so quickly turned into a friendly chat. It wasn't easy to keep up grudges with Bodie!

Who was eyeing him, fetchingly, under his long shadowy lashes. No, it wasn't easy to stay cold and dry in front of the mischievous, manipulative little rascal.

Bodie was scanning him through and through. “You're not slack, just a tad out of shape.” He winked. “We'll remedy it soon. What about that fishing party?”

  
The fishing party was scheduled for the next week-end. The weather forecast was as favourable as could be within the uncertainties of a Scottish spring: the mildest that had been recorded for some twenty years, if Bart’s memory was to be trusted. Hopefully Cowley’s ankle would be healed then.

Meanwhile the much bored and still balking “patient” would have to get used to being taken care of by his “minder”. Who seemed to enjoy the situation immensely. As disgruntled as he felt, Cowley was obliged to admit, though grudgingly, that Bodie was pretty good company for a disabled room-mate: even-tempered, helpful without being intrusive, cheerful and often amusingly witty, he almost managed to make him forget his predicament. The bouts of mindless lust hadn't come back (dreams didn't count, at least night-dreams, and day-dreams were easier to fight). He soon assumed he had overcome the temptation.

Time had passed fast. Eventually, on Wednesday, after two days of “Cowley-sitting”, Bodie had undergone his first psychotherapy session with Angus; then a second and a third the two next days. With no apparent result. Angus had alternated free talking and attempts at hypnosis. “Attempt” was the right word, for very little had been achieved. The young man had appeared more agreeable to submit himself to hypnosis than expected but had been unable to let his mind-control loosen its grip.

“It's not unwillingness from him,” explained Angus, “it's not even anything he's aware of: he was quite honestly trying to cooperate but it seems as if a force stronger than his clear consciousness prevents him from opening and disclosing his inner self. That was precisely what I feared and why I prescribed the potion, to help him release his deepest emotions. It didn't work.”

“ _Don't feel too bad_ ,” Cowley muttered to himself, voicelessly but bitterly, “ _it worked with me, beyond all expectation_.”

Angus’ thoughts had followed the same path. “However, the complex has proven to be effective: you told me your sleep was seriously disturbed; so I infer your basic emotional balance has been somehow upset.”

“Thank you so much, cousin! You didn’t warn me you needed me as a lab-rat.”

“I must admit I was quite pleased to have you as a control subject, if I dare say, in order to appraise the amplitude of the patient’s reactions. Sure it’s not methodologically legitimate to compare two different subjects with quite different backgrounds and conditions but, pragmatically... I deemed you to be a fair compass for emotional stability.”

_You’ve no idea how far from the truth you are upon this, man_. “And what about this wonderful soothing and equilibrating effect, so often alleged?”

“I told you it was the second phase of the process; it may be more or less delayed. And sometimes it requires a complement: another herb complex... ”

“Ah, that’s new! We really were your lab rats, I see.”

“Not at all, what are you thinking, George? In accordance with the congruent deontology, the experimental protocol I followed... ”

“Enough with the technical jargon, Angus!” Cowley growled, “Translate your spiel into English or, much better, give me your conclusions about Bodie’s case. In a few words.”

Angus knew when the play was over with Cowley. “In a few words, I’m pretty certain the lad was affected by the active components of the concoction as you were and, maybe, more than you, but his emotional defense system, which is deeper and stronger than I surmised, kicked in at once and forbade him to react or, even, to feel anything.” He paused, expressively, between every syllable: “In fewer words: The. Man. Inside. Doesn’t. Want. To. Recover. His. Memory.”

This wasn’t news to Cowley. “And that’s all you’ve found throughout three two-hours sessions?” he taunted, his tone acerbic.

“Do you know more?”

“At least I know as much. I asked him that same question twice, and twice he answered along the lines of ‘I’m not sure’”.

“So he’s got some awareness of it; that’s good.” Angus replied serenely. The scientist in him was immune to criticism from laymen. “I did find out a few points of interest by using the method of free association.”

“Which are?”

“It's too early to assert anything with any degree of confidence but I can reasonably assume the father figure, either by its absence or, oppositely, by its omnipresence, is central in the subject's psychology, as is the problematic of authority and trust therein.”

Cowley's reputation for fast thinking wasn't ill-founded. “I see you coming! Sorry, cousin, I have no vocation for surrogate fatherhood whatsoever.”

“You want the end, you need the means. Seriously, George, what exactly do you think you have been doing in this affair from the start?”

“First and foremost, trying to mend MI6’s blunders by helping a brain-damaged chap to recover; certainly not fostering a kid: that’s a responsibility I always refused to take when I could; I’m not starting now.”

“You may not have a choice.”

“What?”

“It could be the lad is already viewing you as a father figure, if not as a surrogate father as you said yourself.”

“But I don’t see him as a son!” It was maddening. And no way he would tell Angus the real reasons why he couldn’t possibly look at Bodie with a genuine fatherly gaze.

“Do you want to achieve anything? From all I found out that I can understand, the only path to Bodie’s true self is through trust and love. Preferably from an older man, endowed with authority and power. Don’t cringe. I’m not asking you to adopt him for good: You’ve just to behave in such a manner he would believe in you, in your unfaltering support and understanding. Angus winked: “You’ve not to be sincere, just convincing.”

Cowley’s voice sounded resigned and sad somehow. “Sometimes Angus, your cynicism is too much, even for me.”

“Ta, ta, cousin; tell me about that fishing party.”

  
“I feel I’m turning into a rabbit,” Bodie complained when Cowley served him a consistent portion of mixed salad with his mushroom omelette.

“Did I protest when you inflicted me all those fried sausages, fried eggs and fried bacon? Not to mention your baked beans on toast and greasy roasties?”

“Yes, you did.”

Cowley shrugged, Gallic style, and ostentatiously lifted his gaze to the ceiling. He had absolutely no pretense in the realm of fine cooking but was able to fix a decent meal when there was no other way to get it.

“Be happy I was willing to prepare your dinner while you were gallivanting about... ”

“Gallivanting? I was in the shed, repairing the heater. And yesterday I fixed the boat engine. That’s man’s work and I need my sustenance. Your salad is not man’s food.”

“Sorry I offended your manliness. Mine is quite happy with omelette and salad.” He couldn't help himself from glancing at the very manly figure in front of him.

“Sure: you were at complete rest for five days. I worked hard.”

“Congratulations! You won the “Most helpful boy-scout of the month” award, no contest; I remind you I didn't command you to do anything. I'm perfectly content with the fireplace.”

“The heater was nothing but the boat must be available if we want to go angling on the loch.”

“So you changed your mind about fly-fishing?”

Bodie considered him for a moment, thoughtfully, his handsome face wearing an expression of worry mixed with exasperation. “Fly-fishing? I suggest sky-diving! Come on, man: you still can hardly walk! Don’t deny it; I observed you while you were shuttling between the kitchen and the dining table. I didn’t know it was possible for a man to limp on both legs... ”

  
A greatly exaggerated assessment, thought Cowley, as he walked down the path leading to the loch. The pretext for this evening stroll was to make some slight adaptations to the two brand new fishing rods, in keeping with the larger boat's built-in props. But the other reason, which neither of them had voiced, was to test Cowley's physical abilities. Which were not so diminished after all. His long rest had been quite beneficial: the pain in his knee had become almost negligible, rather lesser than usual actually, and he was now able to use his left foot, providing he didn’t put too much weight on it.

He had chosen the shorter and steeper way. Bodie was following him, carrying the rods in their sheath and muttering between his teeth. “Damned old fool; you’ll break your neck this time!”

“I’ll show you what a grey-headed veteran like me can do while limping on both legs!”

“Childish; at least let me go first, so you could hold on to me if you slip again.”

“Not a bad idea; then I wouldn’t feel your reproaching glare on the back of my neck.”

“Wrong. I was looking at the bald spot at the top of your head. And you’re not grey-haired!”

Cowley almost missed a step. That wasn’t fair. He loathed any hint at his thinning hair. For a man whose only concern about his looks had been to see that he would always be neat and dressed properly in all circumstances, he was oddly sensitive to the subject. He had never thought of himself as handsome, had never been called so. The only compliments he had ever been awarded in that area had been for his shining, wavy hair (and still, the colour wasn’t everybody’s taste).

“Eh? Willing to shift from butler to hairdresser, now?

Always perceptive, Bodie had jumped by his side, grasping his elbow with his free hand to steady him lest he slid. “You want? I rather like your hair; it’s got a nice shade, something uncommon, between sandy and ginger.”

“With a bald spot.”

“Oh, it’s not big.”

“Yet,” completed Cowley gloomily.

“Don’t be so self-conscious! You’re not as bad-looking as you think.”

“But I don’t! What are you insinuating, young impertinent,” he said lightly. He was lying. While his appearance was very seldom at the centre of his thoughts, there were times, and this was one of them, when he would be painfully aware of his deficiencies: with his shortish stature, his too narrow chest and shoulders and his wiry limbs, he could never pose as a model of male beauty. And this was especially flagrant in front of someone like Bodie. Though, as the lad had noticed earlier, he used to have more muscle and more bodily strength. And in his best days he would still be able to overpower younger men in several martial arts.

“Sorry for the phrasing; what I was meaning was you’re rather a good-looking bloke on the whole, and not only ‘for your age’”.

“Thanks for the reassurance, sonny.” Cowley’s words were more sincere than their sarcastic tone would imply.

They were walking quietly together now, Bodie’s arm around his waist, holding him firmly. To prevent him from stumbling or for any other reason he didn’t want to dig up.

Waves of memories flowed over him, of people who had walked this path by his side in the past, of Doug and his pals, of Franny, brisk and lively as a lark, of his own few friends: of one of them, he had thought to be as close as his own skin, who had held him in the same way, though tighter, the week before they enlisted. Franny was now a strident and nosy hag; Doug and so many others never came back home; his mate had returned during a leave to marry a heavily pregnant eighteen year old lassie Cowley had never heard of, only to leave her a distressed and needy widow soon after. He had repressed his feeling of betrayal and helped. He still saw her son from time to time. But how he missed Doug...

Bodie’s amused voice broke into his reverie. “A penny for your thoughts?”

“They’re not worth more; just an old git’s memories; people who were older than you are before you were born.”

“And so what? That doesn’t make you so old.”

“Sometimes I feel I’m thousand years old.”

“Me too. Either that or just feeling like a new-born. When I wake up in the morning, wondering who I am and what I'll be in a year, or in a month. Doesn’t mean anything. And no, you don’t look old. What’s the matter with you today, fishing for compliments like that?” He stopped. “Speaking of fishing, we’ve arrived.”

They were in front of the boat-house. They got in to check the boat’s fitments and props, which were found to be perfectly fitting for the new rods. Something Cowley had always known.

“Standard equipment.” Bodie considered him quizzically. “You could simply have told me you wanted to go walk the dog.” He smiled: “I was wrong; you’re sound and fit for duty.”

“Another compliment? You spoil me.”

They sat on a tree trunk at the fringe of the small sandy beach, far enough from the silt-reeking pier. The dusk was slowly setting down on the loch, veiling all things in drapes of blue mist. Bodie's arm weighed pleasantly on his shoulders. Cowley forgot whoever had crossed his path thirty years ago. He was here, and now, and with Bodie.

 


	9. Track

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cowley on the war path

 

The morning call struck like a bolt in a summer sky. “Where's Bodie?”

Cowley's sense of danger was instantly on alert, with a grim foreboding. “What's the matter?”

“Where is he?”

“What do you want him for?”

Angus' voice on the RT was sharp. “George, that's serious business. Can you speak freely?”

“Aye. I'm alone. Get to the point!”

“In three words: Truce is over!”

“What d'you mean?”

“You had a truce with MI6 regarding Bodie, didn’t you? Well, it's over.”

Cowley didn't bother to ask Angus what his source of information was; he just questioned: “What happened?”

“Seems some serious threat from the P L F has been uncovered that Bodie might have got intelligence about, like their arms provider's whereabouts, or even an access inside. They want him, urgently.”

“He's of no use to them in his current condition.”

“You don't need to tell me that. It's a moot point though; they want to question him, their way.”

“On what authority?”

“A fairly sufficient one, have no doubt about it.”

“The Minister?”

“You mean the Home Secretary? Changed his mind. Not his competence anyway. Foreign matters, MI6 private sandbox."

“I've got higher contacts.”

You don't intend to go up to the PM for this boy, do you, George? We're on highly sensitive grounds here. Our Israeli friends are fretting. With good reason.”

Cowley kept silent for a few seconds. Angus insisted: “You're playing with fire, George, keep in mind what's at stake.”

_More than you imagine, Angus_ , thought Cowley. Angus knew about his project, along general lines, but not how close it was to its implementation. A wrong move on his part and everything could still be cancelled, or entrusted to someone else. However that wasn't his worst fear. His career he could dismiss, his honour was another thing. If the boy had noticed... what he couldn't have failed to, if he spoke (and then, in what terms?)... The least suspicion about his morality would cast a shadow on all his past achievements.

A sense of urgency gripped him, wringing his throat tight. “How much time do we have?”

“No time. They're already here.”

“What!”

“The last phone call I got was from Glasgow and mentioned a helicopter.”

“The last call? What else did you hide from me?”

“George, I wasn't even supposed to warn you at all.”

“I see. We'll talk later. What's going on at the moment?”

“MI6 has sent a team; they must have landed now, not very far from your place; if they're not at your door, they most likely are at the boat house.”

Cowley's heart lurched. Bodie was at the boat house, to try the engine and set the boat afloat. “What did you tell them, exactly?”

“Everything I knew. Look, I couldn't conceal anything from them in my position.”

“What position? You left the services years ago.”

“You never leave the services, George, never completely.”

“I'm wasting a precious time. Bye, Angus.”

“Hold on! What are you going to do?”

“Try to salvage something from this wreck.”

“George, don't do anything foolish!”

“I won't. Bye.”

Nothing was less sure, though. Cowley clicked off the RT. There was little he could do. Save a private telephone number, which was of no use there, he had no means of communication with the only man who had enough clout to thwart the MI6 moves (and who probably wouldn't deem the gain worth the wager anyway). He wondered how far he would have been ready to go otherwise: up to risking the most powerful support he had ever had in his career? Thinking further about it, he decided he didn't want to know. But he knew what he wanted: to take hold of Bodie before anyone else did, and silence him, by any means available barring murder.

It was reluctantly, though, that he retrieved his gun from its cache. Shooting at regular State agents performing a legal arrest was unthinkable; shooting at Bodie was hardly more acceptable, even in case of resistance, but, with the lad at least, just showing him the gun might allow him to get close enough to use another, more effective, weapon if plain words failed. He made sure he had the stun serum device well at hand in the inside pocket of his sports jacket and inserted an extra dose in the container. No handcuffs (they still were in the trunk of his car) but a roll of thin, strong nylon rope; properly used, it would make do.

He spared a few minutes to put on good walking shoes and breeches, then picked up his RT and the light bag he had prepared for the fishing party and left. He took a short-cut he never used, for it was still steeper than the track made by the boat trailer; more a sheep pass than a path, actually.

There was little chance he would be at the beach in time, Bodie could have been abducted already if Angus was right, but he hurried nonetheless. His leg and foot didn't hurt any more, as if they never had. He hardly limped. He was aware he was going on adrenaline. Once or twice he slipped without much damage. A brief wave of pain surged and ebbed. He kept moving, singlemindedly, his attention and willpower focused on his goal. But what was his goal, exactly? For the second time in less than a month, he had rushed into action, not heeding the consequences or having made a plan, without leaving himself a way out... He wanted Bodie; he wanted Bodie safe. Safe and silent, or just silent? This was a shameful thought. This was the inescapable issue of the dilemma. No choice really. At least he could tell himself it was all for the higher good.

The narrow track seemed to stretch out under his feet with every cautious step and every passing second, as if there would never be an end to it. When it eventually and abruptly ended into a clearing, he stopped under the cover of a beech-tree and scanned the surroundings. From his standpoint he could see the perfectly still and level surface of the loch and the clear blue sky above, beyond a barrier of shrubbery that hid the beach and the pier from his sight. Everything looked quiet; too quiet: no bird songs, no rustling through the grass and leaves. Such an unnatural silence couldn't be imputed to a lull in the breeze only: something had disturbed the wild life of the woods, and very recently, though he hadn't heard any shooting or shouting while walking down the last hundred yards.

Gun in hand, as noiseless as a bird-watching cat, he skirted around the line of the front trees and got close to the bushes, standing at the far right edge, where a gap in the branches opened up a broader view, encompassing the boat house and the pier. A first glance told him everything wasn't quite normal: the motor boat was nowhere to be seen; only the old wooden one was there, looking more wretched than ever. All his senses on alert he stood, motionless, for a little while. Nothing. Odd how silence and stillness could be more disquieting than turmoil sometimes. Yet he had to move, and fast. He wouldn't have any cover to cross the beach. Throwing caution to the wind, he headed straight for the boat house.

The door was slightly ajar. Cowley moved aside, flattening himself alongside the wooden panel. There he stood for a few seconds, his arm outstretched, the gun's muzzle pointing to the chink. Listening intently, he heard a faint noise: like a feeble moaning from the back of the room; indistinct but human, indubitably. Briskly, he opened the door wide and rushed in. Leaning forward, his gun still in firing position, he went for cover between a large metallic cupboard and a stack of cardboard boxes in the right corner.

At this time in the morning, there was enough light inside to see everything clearly. And what he saw startled him; three decades of experience in man-to-man fighting and commando action hadn't totally blunted his ability of marveling at the sight of sheer prowess: gagged and trussed up like a pair of Christmas geese, there were two men lying on the ground, closely bound to the legs of a massive and heavy workbench. The fishing line that had been tightly wound up round their bodies and kept their wrists tied up high behind their backs was set as a double-loop noose joining their necks together; they couldn't move without strangling each other. Yet the knot was loose enough not to cause any harm if they both kept quiet.

Cowley whistled in overt admiration. Whatever name the lad could be called, fool it wasn’t. If only he could get his hands on just two or three applicants with such skills and resources when he started recruiting his future operatives, he would be a lucky fellow.

A low growl drew his attention to one of the reclining figures. The man who was now glaring at him from below had visibly recovered his consciousness and there even was some sort of recognition in the staring gaze. Cowley bent over and swiftly pulled out a filthy rag from the goon's muzzled jaw.

“Cowley!”

“Don't yell at me, will you? You deafen me. And it's Mister Cowley to you.”

He had the strong impression of having already seen the man, in the corridors of MI6, or body-guarding Willis on some occasion or other. At the moment he was frantic and looked distraught but not in too bad a condition. Cowley repeated the same gesture with the other man, who was slowly awakening, and checked his breathing. He too seemed pretty unharmed. Fine. The lad knew how to measure, and to place, his blows.

“By the way, what are you doing in here?”

“You ask? It's your man, Bodie; he got us by ruse.”

“I can’t compliment you. Besides Bodie's not my man, I've no power or authority over him.”

“You warned him! He knew we were coming; you told him.”

“And how, I beg you? Using homing pigeons? Don't give me more bullshit or I’ll gag you again and leave you nicely tied up on your backs.”

“Don't you dare even think of it, if you value your life.”

Cowley swiveled briskly and faced the newcomer. This one he knew well: Preston, one of Willis’ best and most trusted operatives. Though the man yielded a much better look in his memory. At this moment he was drenched and plastered with mud. He held a gun but his sleeve was dripping onto the weapon. No dire threat. Cowley ignored it.

“Ah, Preston! What happened to you, man? Missed a step? Got too close to the brink? The pier’s that slippery?”

Scowling, Preston sheathed back his useless gun in his soaked holster. He seemed to recognize him belatedly. “You know what happened, Cowley.”

“Mister Cowley, will you? Or Major, if you prefer, Sergeant.”

“You know what happened, Major, repeated Preston, almost tamely.”

Cowley couldn't resist teasing him a bit more. “I take you had a bad encounter.”

“No kidding; he fled away with the boat and my men's arms and ammo.”

“Again I don't compliment you; MI6 training standards are slipping, or you are.”

Preston was indignant. “I'd like to see you in our place: We were under strict orders to get him alive and unharmed at all costs.”

“A paltry excuse for a botched op.”

“That's rich! You blame us for having failed to capture your own 'protégé'?”

A husky, angry voice sounded behind them. “Could you postpone your explanations for later and just free us, for God's sake?”

The senior agent frowned at his subordinate's insolence and Cowley smiled. “Your turn, sergeant,”

Unthinkingly, Preston reached out to his boot for his dagger and withdrew his hand without it. Another weapon lost, apparently. Sparing him a comment, Cowley held out his own knife to the MI6 officer.

Freed from their bonds at last, the two men told the abridged version of their misadventures, while stretching their sore limbs and gulping much too much of the finest single malt from Cowley's flask.

In short, they had been surprised by the one they intended to surprise. The boat house, the right location for a trap? Yes, providing you were the first in the place, or fast as lightning and moved like a cat; which was not the case. The first man to enter was knocked down; the second was no match for Bodie.

“He was warned!” The, still irate, agent was anything if not stubborn.

“He's got sharp ears! And fast reflexes.”

“Cowley's right,” Preston admitted grudgingly; “they had no means of communication.”

“And how come he arrived so opportunely?”

“We had an appointment for a fishing party.” As unpleasant as it was to answer questions from an underling, he had to provide a cover to Angus. Yet, subscribing to the rule that attack is the best defense, he counter-asked: “And what about your part?”

Preston was understandably reluctant to expose his failure, the more so since he couldn't argue he had been surprised. From his embarrassed and diluted explanations, it emerged that he had posted himself (in the same copse where Cowley had stood for a while) to watch out for the arrival of his target – who wasn't supposed to already be inside – and warn his men of it, then – possibly – stop Cowley (who, according to Angus' pieces of information, was expected to come some time later). When realizing the operation had gone very bad, he had run to the pier, to prevent Bodie from taking the boat. Whatever had happened there, it wasn't a good example of MI6’s much vaunted achievements, though it might be put to Preston's credit that, following orders, he had avoided using his gun. The gun he had retrieved from the silt but, not counting his RT, that was the only thing he had managed to save from the fight.

So, Bodie had now a boat full of gas, two guns and their ammo, two or three daggers, two RT (with little use of them, admittedly) not to mention a supply of food meant for two days and the complete camping gear, including two sleeping bags and a tent, which had been loaded aboard in case they eventually decided to camp somewhere in the woods (another of Bodie's ideas of course).

Cowley strove to hide his glee, in spite of all the difficulties he foresaw for the near future. Now he had some means of pressure on Willis, at least regarding that affair (he was still dreaming of halting the man's steady progress to the top of MI6); he knew that Angus had conveniently schooled the tale he had dished his old colleagues and, last but not least, his admiration for the lad's abilities was blooming. Yet he had no delusion about Bodie's present state of mind and was aware it should be rather a cause of worry than of satisfaction to him.

He turned to Preston: “Is your RT still working? Think we both need to talk to Willis. Now.”

The radio-transmitter was working: it hadn't been dropped in the water during the struggle, just on the ground. Cowley wanted to speak to Willis as soon as possible and, at this point, only to Willis: there was still no need to turn to higher authorities, which he had already sufficiently bothered with a relatively minor and partially personal problem (from the, assumable, Minister's point of view). Moreover he had a hunch Willis would be only too relieved not to have to report his failure to the Head of MI6 (an embarrassment Cowley would have relished to witness in other circumstances).

The call was urgent. Cowley remembered the unusual silence he had noticed while standing at the edge of the woods. It seemed that Preston had disturbed the birds and all the little hidden wild life when he had rushed, breaking through the bushes and the undergrowth to pursue Bodie, say ten, twelve minutes earlier? Then the fight had occurred at the pier: two, three minutes? Maybe less. And Preston had been left unconscious, but not for long. However Cowley hadn’t heard any motor noise from his standpoint in the copse ten minutes ago or caught sight of the boat. He thought quickly. The loch wasn't wide; it was one of the smallest actually, and the boat was fast. Bodie was on the other side even then but couldn't have gone too far yet. He might be twenty five minutes ahead of them. There was still a means of catching him up, but only one. He took the RT from Preston's hand.

As expected, faced with the threat of a difficult and humiliating confession to his boss, Willis opposed little objection to Cowley’s plan.

“I want the helicopter on the beach with the pilot and all its equipment, soonest, and I want to be given free hand for 48 hours. I’d bet anything I can bring back the fugitive, docile and cooperating within that time-limit.”

“Into our hands?”

“If he’s sane and sound, and willing, yes. If his mental or physical condition needs medical care, he’ll go back to Repton, under my own, personal, and sole, responsibility.”

This should have sounded ominously like a demand for unconditional surrender to the ears of Willis but he had not much of an alternative. He needed the man alive and there was little doubt that only Cowley, with the help of Angus, had any chance of achieving that goal in the current circumstances. Finally, they all had been taken back to the initial situation, although in a much worse predicament.

So, some fifteen minutes later, the small black chopper deftly landed on the narrow beach after a short stop at the farm yard and Cowley got on board, welcomed by joyous barks and yaps.

“Ah, you brought Rover with you.”

“Aye, he likes Bodie; could be useful.”

“Could be, indeed.” Cowley wasn’t that happy at Angus’ presence but he needed a back-up, especially with his bad leg, and Angus had a thorough knowledge of the whole area while his was only partial and out of date, plus there was the old man’s perfect command of the dog to take in account. Good idea, the dog, by the way...

“I also took a handkerchief left by Bodie, last time.” It was Angus’ but Bodie had used it, which was well enough for Rover’s flair. Cowley suspected his cousin had done it on purpose, just in case...

The chopper took off, leaving on the ground three very miffed MI6 agents. They now had to get back to the farm on foot, deprived of both their equipment and their mission, not to mention their pride. Preston had kept his useless gun but left Cowley the RT, which – he hoped – could allow him to communicate with Bodie.

The pilot was a technician, not an operative, and looked rather amused by the whole shebang.

“Where shall we go now?”

“Straight across the loch.”

“The north bank of the loch has no beach”, Angus explained, “but there’s quite a large clearing at the top of the hill above, where the trees have been felled down by the tempest, two years ago.”

“Hmm, trunks and stumps are not exactly a good landing place, even for a copter.”

“No worry; it has been cleared since then, to be replanted, but the work hasn’t begun yet. I’m sure you can find a convenient spot to land on.”

The pilot circled the hill, scanning the ground below: the location wasn't ideal but there was room enough for a seasoned professional, which he certainly was.

“I warn you, I have to stay with the aircraft.”

“Of course, no problem: we don’t need you with us,” Angus agreed, in his usual smooth way.

“We need you to wait for us here,” Cowley cut in, crisply, “if we aren’t back within 48 hours, or in case the RT contact is broken, after 24 hours, you’ll alert Preston.”

The pilot made a face: “48 hours with our emergency rations? Sleeping in the cockpit?”

“And what are your emergency rations for? Sleep where you like, the entire glade is yours.”

“It’ll be freezing at night!”

“Don’t you have a sleeping bag?”

“It all comes with the job,” Angus added, smiling graciously.

From the young man's expression, it was plain he didn’t find the game so funny, after all. He considered the two men gloomily while they unloaded their packs: two of the three agents' regulation kits and a few items Angus had brought with him.

“How long since you had to carry a backpack for the last time?”

“Not so long actually,” Cowley grated: what on earth was it with Bodie and Angus, a conspiracy to make him feel old? “I kept attending some of the training sessions for a while after I left the field service, until...

“...until your knee's worsening condition made you unable to continue?”

“Aye”, Cowley admitted, feeling distinctly uncomfortable at the turn of the conversation.

“Do you think you'll manage this time?” Angus sounded genuinely concerned, which wasn’t reassuring.

“I have to!” he snapped, and more composed: “I'll do, if you've done your job.”

“I can't heal it.”

Blast the man; why state the obvious? “I never expected you would!”

“But if you take the medication I've just given you, very regularly every two hours, I can promise the inflammation and the pain will recede enough for you to hold on for the next 48 hours.”

“I'm fine so far. Eh! watch that crazy dog!” Rover was jumping and bouncing all around them like the pup he had been five years ago.

“He's over-excited by the flight. Like any good operative he needs a drive, a purpose, to behave properly. Just wait he'd been assigned his mission...”

Rover sniffed the handkerchief several times, trembling and whimpering, then stood very still in uttermost concentration before he went running in widening circles all around the clearing, stopping and sniffing at every corner and, eventually, sat back on his haunches, looking helpless. Cowley would have laughed if he had not been so strung up.

It took more to disconcert Angus. “Rover is a good dog but he’s not a canine seer; we’re too far from the prey and the wind is blowing the wrong way.”

“And so, what the hell we do now?” Cowley asked with a burst of totally unreasonable anger though he knew the answer.

“Well, we must go downhill and start tracking the man from the place he's left the boat.

“We’re falling behind.”

“There’s no other way.”

“Yes, there is one: I can try to reach Bodie through the RT.” This was something he had thought about when he had borrowed Preston's RT; he couldn't use his own since he didn't know the frequency used by MI6. However he wouldn't make the call in front of Preston and, to tell the truth, wasn't sure that doing it in the presence of Angus would be any wiser... for all sorts of reasons.

All the same, he needed to talk to Bodie... for all sorts of reasons.

The old man tutted: “Too soon, If I read him right, he can’t be in a very communicative mood at the moment. Let's make him sweat a little.”

“As for now, we are the ones who are sweating!”

“You're getting slack, cousin.”

Rover came close to Cowley and shoved a wet nose in the palm of his hand, wagging his tail encouragingly, not a tad affected by his failure. At least, thought Cowley, among the four of us, there's one happy to be there and content with himself.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mentioned tempest occured in 1968.


	10. Chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title says all.

 

Sipping with a grimace a gulp of tepid water from the MI6 regulation canteen, Cowley swallowed a pinch of tiny brownish pills. Angus' repeated claims about his medication's efficiency weren't so much of a boast after all, and the few remaining doubts they both might still have held about his ability to withstand the ongoing trial were definitely unfounded, he thought, while scrambling down the steep slope that led to the only spot on the bank where a boat could have landed on this side of the loch.

The hardly visible trail they were following didn't deserve to be called a path. Scurrying ahead, the dog was cutting them a breach through the thicket of bracken. Angus kept striding close behind at a brisk pace, the old bugger... Eh, bugger he could be, if Churchill's famous words about the Navy's traditions were to be trusted, but old he wasn't, not outside the calendar at least. The passing years and their plights seemed to have slipped on the man's skin and mind without leaving a trace, not counting the scars.

Cowley didn’t lack scars of various kinds and locations and, for many years, he had to fight his body rather than rely on it to achieve his goals. But for the first time since Korea he felt sound and whole, able to move freely, almost nimbly. For a second he wondered if his cousin hadn’t given him some opiate...No, Angus wouldn’t have dared, though...

Soon they reached the place where the boat had been abandoned: a small creek, hidden from all sides but the water. The dog’s flair had been useful this time. Angus gave him a scrap of jerky and a pat on the head. “Good boy, fine job”.

The praise was not undeserved: the boat had been covered with branches and greenery, skilfully arranged as to look natural and without the dog’s help, they could easily have missed it at first. It wasn’t empty, though Bodie had taken with him everything he could cram into or pile up on top of his big rucksack; and that included a sleeping bag and one of those light, small Army tents, where two men could hardly squeeze in and lie down. They weren’t from MI6’s stock but from Angus’ shack: Bodie had insisted on bringing them aboard “in case they’d decide to stay the night in the woods if the weather allowed it” (something Cowley was very resolute to avoid at all costs, even if it had been the mildest in Scotland’s climatic history).

They found one of the Radio transmitters, undamaged, and the second sleeping bag, with a set of well-worn sportswear (Cowley’s idea this time; a fishing party on a boat may easily turn into an unintended aquatic exhibition and make a change of clothes very necessary). Cans of beer had been discarded, probably to give room to more useful stuff in his bag. Somehow he had managed to pack all the food. He wouldn’t lack subsistence for the next two days at least, with or without an extra-supply of game or fish.

Anyway, all that gear made an awful weight to carry, even for a young, athletic chap like Bodie. But, of course, Cowley had good reasons not to doubt the lad’s ability to bear his burden as long as it would take. He never ceased to marvel at the amazing amount of physical strength and resilience his former companion could display when needed. What an outstanding agent he would make if only...No, that thought was ridiculous. The situation had changed dramatically during the last two hours: the man was now a fugitive, suspected of connections with terrorists and susceptible to being charged with resisting a legal arrest by assaulting regular State forces.

“I’m surprised he didn’t get rid of the RTs,” Angus said pensively. “I was so sure that would be his first move I didn’t even try to check his position."

Neither did I thought Cowley, a bit mortified by his unusual lapse of mind. Damn Angus and his emotion-stirring, brain-befogging potions. He, quite unfairly, retorted: “Yes, you preferred to rely on the dog.”

But Angus was pursuing his own train of thoughts: “At least he could have kept one and destroyed the other.”

“He wanted us to find it. Didn’t know we had the third one.” Cowley didn’t elaborate. He wasn't very keen about telling, even himself, why he was so sure Bodie would wish to communicate with him at some point. Fortunately Angus didn’t ask.

“So why hide it?”

“To save time, I guess; we would have found the boat eventually.”

“In that case, wrong move. This device can give him away, working or not, whole or broken. There’s a homing chip inside.”

“I know it; you know it, but he’s probably not aware of that. It’s not mainstream technology.”

“Aye, you may be right. It must not have reached the African bush yet. Eh, just his bad luck.”

Bodie's position wasn't difficult to pinpoint: he had headed towards the valley behind the hill, following the narrow path that bordered the bank at first, then turning left to take a wider lane through the woods.

Before resuming the chase Angus opened one of the cans of beer. “No hurry, cousin: in this direction there’s nothing for miles and miles but trees, except – not too far away from here – a farm whose owner is a friend of mine. I can ask Bart to warn him,” he smiled thinly, “not to be afraid of a possible stranger’s intrusion and even to give him the warmest welcome if he sees him, while waiting for us to arrive.”

Cowley dismissed the idea. “It won’t happen. He’ll never ask anybody for help, that’s for sure. And he’s aware he’s being hunted down by men with powerful means. Don’t underestimate the man. I’d be surprised if he allows himself to be seen by your farmer. The most likely is he’ll try to steal a car and then some money from a village shop or some empty house”.

“You’re right, of course, I’ll warn him to lock his vehicles indoors, all his vehicles.” (Cowley suddenly got the weird mental image of Bodie driving away, perched on the saddle of a tractor).

“Do it now; the man is swift as a snake.”

And so did Angus, using his own frequency to contact Bart. The farmer didn’t show too much surprise, according to the old man’s later report; he had noticed the unusual circling of a helicopter above his head. (And maybe Angus had a reputation of his own among his neighbours too?). He hadn't seen anything suspicious but agreed about the safety measures.

After half a mile Cowley stopped. “Is the farm you told me about close-by?”

“Yes, quite, why?”

“I think you should go there and stay with your friends, I'll keep in touch with you through Bart.”

“You offend me, cousin! I wasn't aware I looked so useless.”

“That's not the point. I'm convinced the only way to reach to Bodie is through talking. He may agree to talk to me, but to me alone. Not sure he still trusts me, probably not, but there's a slight hope of it; not with you: he'd be more stupid than I could imagine him to be if he wasn't able to guess who had disclosed the place and time of our meeting to MI6.”

“Come on, George! We are on the same page here.”

“Not quite. He knows I don't like MI6 and its methods. We discussed it and I was very clear about it.”

“Twaddle! I can't leave you alone to face a madman! You are not in the best of physical condition and he knows that.”

“Precisely! He cannot hold any fear towards me.”

“Neither towards me: he's so much younger, and heavily armed now.”

“Angus, again you don't get my point: it's not just a question of bodily strength or weaponry; he may be wary but he's not afraid of me. Whatever he may consciously think, my take is he cannot believe I would do him any harm.”

“And you won't?”

“Not if I can help it.”

Angus let out a brief laugh. “Methinks, if he's so bright, he'll take this reservation into account!”

“He will. And I'll prevail.”

“Presumption will be your downfall!”

Cowley's mind was made up, however, and Angus knew him well enough not to insist when it was plain the discussion was closed. Good sport, he admitted his defeat.

“Have your way, cousin. Yours, at least, is a clear option; probably better than improvising on the spur of the moment...”

Cowley snorted. “You mean running haphazardly in all directions, like a headless chicken...”

“A little exaggerated, I'd say, but you may have a point there. I thought we could catch up with him eventually, if only because of his extra load. But no; his lead on us seems to be increasing with every minute.”

“I told you he's got uncommon physical and mental resources.”

“I had more than mere hunches about that,” Angus conceded, “I experienced them first hand; the mental resource I mean.”

“The physical is on a par; believe me.”

“I believe you. But what shall we do now? Time is not an issue any more if you are to fix a meeting with him, I suggest you come with me to the farm for a rest and a drink. You can have your chat there. I continue to think it's not a good idea to get in touch with him too soon; he must have some time to get tired and ponder on the situation.”

Cowley hesitated. Going with Angus to the farm could be the best assurance he had the old man wouldn't follow him. “You may be right. We still have to keep to the 48 hours deadline, but one hour makes little difference. Anyway if I can't persuade him to come back with me, the game is over.”

“Over for us but not for MI6.”

Cowley mumbled evasively. He never had been so uncertain about an action plan in all his life but Angus didn't need to know that.

 

No question was asked by the farmer, who appeared to be a remote cousin of Bart and a former Marine trooper himself. Leaving the two old war-buddies chatting amiably in the kitchen, Cowley declined the offer of sharing their lunch and took the ham sandwiches brought by Angus instead. He accepted a glass of local beer however, then - with a few words of apology - slipped out to the farmyard, followed by Rover.

The sun was high in the sky now and the warmth of this mid-May, rather unusual in the Highlands, made the shadow afforded by the overhanging roof of the wood-shed very welcome. The pile of wood he was sitting on wasn't as convenient as a bench but he enjoyed the quietness and solitude, grateful that Angus had tuned himself into discreet mode for once.

He patted Rover's rump. “What would you tell to Bodie, old chap?” The dog woofed sympathetically but had no more pertinent advice to give, so Cowley had no excuse for delaying the call any longer. Thanks to Preston's precise, if not exactly freely provided, snippets of information, he knew the frequencies to use. Short waves have a long scope. He could only hope Willis would hold true to his word and abstain from scanning his unsuccessful team's radio transmissions or, at least, not use them during the agreed 48 hours.

Bodie's quick answer stunned him. “About time. What kept you?”

“I came as soon as possible.”

“Hardly. I expected you hours ago.”

“You forget I had no motor-boat at my disposal.”

“You had the ‘copter. I knew you'd use it.”

Cowley burst out. “Precisely, Bodie! I had to clean the mess you've made: free the poor fellows you'd ambushed, appease their leader and, last but not least, find an agreement with MI6. For I have made an agreement with Willis and, believe it or not, that's the only reason you're still alive and free, with a not too ungrounded hope to remain so.”

Bodie laughed. “I'm free because I took matters into my own hands. As for being alive, it's something I don't owe to you: I had a strong impression they only wanted me alive.”

Cowley hissed. “You missed the second part of my sentence: the part about remaining free in the future.”

“And you hold the key of my cell?”

“Bodie, that's no joking matter. We have to talk, and not through this device. You understand me?”

A silence. The voice broke it, clipped. “I agree. We've to meet. On my conditions.”

“Which are?”

“You and me. Alone.”

“Of course. I told you I've got a truce with MI6”

“That means also: not with Angus. I don't want him.”

“Fine. He's not with me.”

“He came with you. I saw him and the dog.”

“Indeed? You've sharp eyes.”

“I've binoculars.”

“Angus is now having lunch with a friend and enjoying himself telling old war tales. He's no intention of coming with me.”

“OK. I'll see you from a long way off anyway.”

Mildly surprised by the relative smoothness of the verbal exchange with the fugitive, Cowley pursued with more assurance. “Where are you?”

“You don't think I'm going to tell you, do you?”

Good, thought Cowley, he's not aware of the homing device. “Seems to be necessary, if we have to meet.”

“Not yet. You'll get back to the path you were on before heading towards the farm, first. Then call me again.”

“Don't you want to know my frequency?”

“No. You call me: your move.”

“As you like.” Hmm, he suspects something in the appliance can detect his position but doesn't know what or how. Actually calling or being called is indifferent, master Bodie, but I'm not going to explain it to you.

“I'm leaving now; should be at the crossroads in about ten/fifteen minutes.”

Cowley shouldered back his heavy pack with notably less energy than before. He took a few pills more, sent the dog to Angus with a friendly kick in the butt and started walking down the lane to the spot where it met the valley.

At this point he resumed his walk onwards. He knew Bodie was somewhere uphill but didn't want to look too well informed. After two hundred yards he stopped and let his thoughts wander.

His uncertainty regarding Bodie's state of mind was only equaled, if not surpassed, by a growing confusion about where he stood in this adventure: Was he in to save the lad from MI6's predictable abuses, or to save himself from a devastating blow to his reputation? That there was no contradiction between both aims wasn't enough to clear his sense of guilt or ease his shame. He was no longer trying to convince himself that he was the only one capable of extracting precious intelligence out of Bodie's wretched memory (the lad would, or wouldn't, recover it but probably without any external interference). He just had to make sure Bodie wouldn't be tempted, or forced, to speak about their shared intimacy.

Again and again he re-enacted in his mind the painful scenes, and all their miserable details, which had so patently showed his illicit desires. Illicit, they weren't anymore for the common man under the British Law, but the common man he wasn't, and he’d never lost sight of the threat: the slightest suspicion of homosexuality would bring his career to its end and irredeemably taint his honor in his peers’ eyes.

Once more he wondered what part exactly the various drugs he had been induced by Angus to take were playing in his unaccustomed emotional instability.

With an effort he gathered his wits and made the call. Bodie answered at once. “Stay where you are. I can see you.”

“Me too,” muttered Cowley, off the mike. He didn't need the homing device for that; the reverberation of the light on the binoculars' lens was enough. “What are you afraid of, Bodie? You’re the one with the long-range weapons. If you can see me, you know I've none.”

“I’m not afraid of you.”

“Good. Neither am I. We'll be on equal terms then, and friendly too, I hope.”

The subsequent silence wasn't encouraging. “Bodie? You still with me?”

“I heard what you said.”

“You agreed we had to meet. The only question now is where. Will you come to me, or shall I get to you?”

“Come.”

“Where, damn it!”

“If you haven’t already figured it, go straight-on to the next crossroad and turn left: the path goes uphill. I'm somewhere near the top. Call again when you'll reach the little fir copse.”

“Don't play games with me, laddie; that's childish and...”

“Bodie out.” The RT clinked and went mute.

“Godammit! Stupid git!” As much as he hated curses and profanities, this – really – hit a nerve. Cowley gritted his teeth, at least metaphorically, and proceeded to comply.

The path ascending to the copse was long and trying for a man whose bad knee had started to complain anew. He made a pause and swallowed another dose of pills, hoping he wasn't already in the danger zone. He was a little leery about it since he remembered having drunk some of the weird herb-tea a few times during the last few days, only to goad Bodie into taking it more regularly. What effect mixing it with the pills might have, he didn't know and Angus had omitted to enlighten him about it.

The hill he was climbing was a little higher than the surrounding ones and, at that height, trees began to give way to shrubs and heather, so the remaining group of firs stood very visible against the sky. What was still more remarkable however were, at the top, the ruins of the old chapel, which he had noticed a few days ago, at dawn, in the aftermath of a certain night's disturbing events.

Bodie was nowhere to be seen. In this environment, there was only one place where he could have sought refuge: the ruins. And that raised a question: why? Why having elected as shelter such an exposed position, which offered no advantages except prominence and a far-reaching view? It wasn't the choice of a man who wanted an open road to a quick and easy escape. It was intended for a face-to-face, man-to-man confrontation. It was obvious to Cowley that now and there were the time and place for the final explanation.


	11. Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When choices have consequences...

 

And then, he was there, just in front of him: a dark figure against the light, blurrily framed by the darker background of the copse. A moment before there was nothing to see but the barely quivering branches of the fir trees and a lonely rock in the foreground. The sudden clink of a stone behind him had distracted Cowley for a split second. Repressing a move of anger, he spoke gently: “Bodie? Why are you hiding?”

He still couldn't see him distinctly but he had a feeling the man was sneering. He got no answer. The silence stretched. Then a sardonic bark:

“Sure, I have no reason for hiding: I'm just being hounded by all the special forces in the country.”

“Much exaggerated: it's only MI6, a team of three men who are under strict orders not to fire.”

Cowley saw his opponent stiffen. “You're well informed.”

“Not quite, not until I questioned the poor fellow you threw overboard into the silt, minus his weapons; a very upset fellow by the way, and nicely talkative.

“And of course you'd heard nothing from Angus.”

“Not much, and too late.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Come on, Bodie...”

The young man stepped forward out of the shadow. He was indeed sneering.

“What's the fairy tale of the day? “I give you my word: Be faithful to me and I won't let you down, whatever happens,” remember?

Cowley froze; those very words had haunted him since Angus called in the morning. “I remember; I never lied to you, Bodie. Trust me.”

“I don't trust you any more.”

The tone was final. Cowley swallowed painfully; he had a bad taste in his mouth.

“Don't be silly: when I got a warning from Angus, the chopper had already landed and you know perfectly well I had no means of contacting you.”

“You fixed the meeting place and time. It was a set-up: by either you or Angus, I don't care.”

“That's pretty unfair.”

“Don't talk about fairness; you don't even know the meaning of the word.”

Anger prevailed over caution. “If you cannot listen to reason, at least think of your interest!”

“I know my interest.”

Cowley started. It wasn't the low growl out of Bodie's throat; it wasn't the fierce glow in his gaze: a gun had appeared in the other man's hand: the action so swift he hadn't even caught sight of the move.

“My interest is to be free and you're going to help me to just that.”

“And what was I trying to do since I brought you with me?”

“Pulling your damned information out of me!”

“For your own good. That's how I rescued you from MI6; did it once and I can do it again.”

“You certainly can. I'll make sure you do.”

The gun was held firmly, and steadily aimed at his chest, straight at the heart. From this distance there was no chance of missing. In the same time, the man was too far for any foolhardy attempt at disarming him to succeed. Wise from him. Dangerous, fast and wise: what an agent he would make if...Damned it, you'll never learn...

But what had happened to the Bodie who had carried him for hours through hills and woods, and had taken care of him almost tenderly? What about the gently teasing companion who knew how to make him laugh and who himself laughed at his bursts of temper? Something must have snapped in the man's brain, or was it in his heart?

No, sentimentality was out of order. “What do you expect of that folly?”

“I've got nothing to lose.”

“Stupid git! You've everything to lose, you idiot _”

“Shut up and listen to me: we're going back to the boat and you'll steer it to the other end of the loch, eastward; then we'll walk to the next village.”

“And then what? What have you in mind?”

“Then, I'll decide.”

“Bodie! If you have no consideration for me left, at least don't waste your last chance: any unlawful act would be your doom.”

“You talk too much. Keep your big mouth shut and throw your gun towards me.”

Looming out of his past, the ghost of a brash, reckless young Cowley popped up in his mind, foolishly suggesting he could deny having a gun on him, so to entice Bodie to come closer and search him, but he was dismissed at once by the older, more experienced Cowley. He would have other, less hazardous, opportunities to test his not unremarkable skills in the martial arts on his offender. The view of Bodie's finger softly nibbing the trigger of his own gun wasn't for nothing in his restraint.

Moving with extreme slowness, making sure that his every gesture would be constantly visible to Bodie, he retrieved his hidden weapon from his lower inside pocket and, with the same caution, he threw the gun in the required direction. With a gracious lob, it landed at the young man's feet, from where it was picked up with equal deftness. At no time was Bodie's gaze diverted from Cowley's moves or his gun-holding hand wavering. Even from that distance the unnatural feverish glow of his eyes was apparent. Cowley wondered if he might have been hit on the head, in some manner, by Preston during their fight. However there was no doubt about the man's perfect awareness and control of the situation.

“And now, do the same with your RT!”

“What?”

“Throw it to me. Now!”

“What do you want to do with it?”

“Nothing; won't be of any use now. Throw it. Do not discuss my orders.”

A wave of cold anger rolled over Cowley with renewed force; what is he going to demand from me next? Remove my shoes? The idea of being so powerless was infuriating. Never had it felt like this since his brief captivity in Korea. But there was no conceivable way to evade it. What's your defense against a mad man? A very resolute, clever and heavily armed mad man...

Teeth clenched to hold back a bout of nausea, Cowley took the RT hooked to his belt and flung it to Bodie, who made no attempt to catch it on the fly. He just made a step forward and crushed it under his boot with needless violence.

This view restored some of Cowley's confidence: the man wasn't as perfectly in control as he wanted to appear. And, Cowley thought with relief, Bodie didn't suspect he still had his own RT with him, not to mention the syringe of narcotic. Good that these fishing vests had so many large, deep pockets; very convenient...There was hope. Maybe.

What followed remained later in Cowley's hazy and sketchy remembrance as a long, harrowing, meaningless nightmare.

First Bodie went back to the old chapel to retrieve his package, never letting his attention falter for a second. Cowley wondered, with dread, if he was going to force him to take his share of the burden, for the weight of his own gear was the very most he could carry, and he already felt exhausted. But no, the man seemed made of steel; he shouldered his oversized stack of paraphernalia as if it was a kid's schoolbag.

Walking down the slope proved to be harder than climbing due to sliding stones and slippery grass, not to mention the traitorous outcropping roots, of infamous memory. Cowley made cautious steps, once at a time and his slow progress obviously irritated his captor, impatiently trampling behind.

“Wake up, dammit! We haven't got all day.”

Cowley halted and turned round, facing the gun: “We? I don't know about you but, as for me, I'm not going anywhere.”

His rather poor attempt at humour fell flat; Bodie was deadly serious. “You'll go with me, everywhere I go.”

“Bodie, stop that nonsense: You do not stand a chance of getting out of this without my help.”

“Precisely: you're helping me just fine; you're my safeguard, aren't you?” Bodie's smirk wasn't quite sane, Cowley thought with alarm.

“Must I infer from your statement that I am your hostage?”

“Oh yeah, you might put it that way.”

Cowley's sense of alarm was growing fast. “Bodie! That's pure madness and you know it.”

Bodie's face closed up. “Not your concern. Shut up and walk on.”

“I can't. I'm knackered.” Seeing Bodie frown, he hasted to add: “I need to take my pills. You remember? The medication Angus gave me: I have to take it every two hours.” Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to mention Angus in that context. Bodie's frown deepened.

“I don't want any of your tricks. Open your jacket wide, slowly, and turn aside a little, so I can see every of your moves. Don't try to fool me if you value your life.”

In spite of the threat, Cowley felt to some point reassured by Bodie's acceptance, though the man's strangely haunted look kept him worrying: he promised himself, if he managed to sort things out eventually, to ask Preston what exactly had happened during the fight on the boat. Bodie was in full light now and there was this suspicious bruise on the left temple, just above a bloodied eyebrow.

Meanwhile he did as instructed and retrieved the box of pills from one of his front pockets, the most easily accessible. At the tip of his fingers he could feel the syringe, in the same compartment. That was oddly comforting. There would be an opportunity some time later...before they reached the boat.

The slow walk down resumed, Cowley making no effort to hasten the pace, as much from a very genuine discomfort as in the hope to put Bodie on edge, to have him riled, enough to loose a little his vigilance. It might be foolish, it might be hazardous, but it was the only way to get him to come closer, to commit an imprudence.

At the moment, however, Bodie was very much in command indeed, of the situation as of himself; disturbed maybe, but not to the point of letting his guard down. For the first time Cowley could catch a glimpse of that part of the man's personality that had been covered but not suppressed by amnesia: the workmanship of the finely-adjusted killing machine, the ruthlessness of the jungle warrior. In other circumstances he would have been duly impressed.

Eventually Bodie seemed to be on the verge of losing his temper. “To hell with you! Do you think I can't see you're dragging your feet on purpose? Hurry up a bit and spare me the bullshit.”

“What will you do if I collapse?”

“Nonsense! You're not half as tired as you try to look.”

Which was only half wrong (damn the bastard and his devilish perceptiveness!) but Cowley still hoped his objection had hit the mark. Actually, what could Bodie do if he did collapse? Abandon him there? Possible, but he thus would lose his “hostage” (a stupid idea in itself but that was another matter, and since the fool seemed to believe in its feasibility...).

“Your call.” He ostentatiously quickened his pace.

Not for long: A few yards farther Cowley stopped walking and abruptly sat down on a welcoming tree-trunk, which he had spotted from afar. A shot rang out and reverberated eerily from hill to hill in the empty surrounding space: Bodie had fired, over his head but at the precise place where his head had been a split second before.

“I won't budge.” Cowley stared at his opponent with cold resolution. For the shortest of whiles Bodie looked defeated. Then his face clammed up and he turned his gaze towards the blue-rimmed horizon, a mere gap between two hills.

“You have ten minutes, exactly.” he said at last, still not looking at Cowley.

“How generous of you! Should I thank you for missing me?” He didn't ask if the miss was intentional. Bodie didn't answer. He didn't sit down either but lowered his gun. Stepping to and fro, he got closer but still out of reach.

Cowley stood up abruptly before the term of the allotted time. His back complained vehemently, in tune with his leg. He straightened himself with a wince of pain. When he recovered his focus, Bodie was pointing his gun at him again. “keep quiet; move slowly.”

“Slowly? I thought I was 'ordered' to move faster?”

“Watch it! My reserve of patience is limited and you have already used most of it.”

“Bodie, I am serious; I can't stand it much longer. What are you going to do when I'll stop for good? Carry me across your shoulders? You did it once but I don't think you want to make a habit of it. It would be somewhat harder this time, I guess!”

For the first time Bodie looked hesitant. “ I'll see then. You're stronger than you pretend; you're perfectly able to walk to the boat at least.” He shrugged: “Take your wonder pills!”

“I just did; a double dose would be toxic. And my pack is too heavy, I can't carry it any longer and you can't take both.”

“Leave it then; soon you'll have no use of it anyway.” Probably realising what sinister meaning his words could have, he hasted to add: “ I've got enough of everything for two and there's other supplies left in the boat.”

Cowley sniggered: “Glad you don't intend to get rid of me too soon.”

“Don't tempt me too much.”

Cowley couldn't tell whether that was a joke or a threat. He opted for threat.

So, as Bodie had decided, the heavy backpack was left on the spot. Cowley was relieved of his burden but not of his worries. They weren't so far from the boat now and something had to happen soon before they embarked. Once aboard everything would become infinitely harder: how to get through a fight on a boat? Not to mention if Bodie eventually succeeded in escaping for good he feared he might well be charged with complicity for providing the fugitive with means of flight; coercion isn't easy to prove when there is no witness and giving Willis such a card against him was the last thing Cowley would allow.

The next stop in their notably quickened progression had a cause that was as unavoidable for Cowley as it was unintentional: to put it politely it was a call of nature. Cowley's character could rightly be described as the epitome of decency and self-restraint, and the many years he had spent in the military amid a bunch of brash young men with no manners had done surprisingly little to loosen his inhibitions. He still hated promiscuity. However he was perfectly able to speak bluntly, and even crudely, especially when he was genuinely embarrassed. Which was the case.

Deviating from his way without warning, he walked to a nearby bush. "I need to take a leak", he said flat out, cursing the beer he had in the farmyard.

“Great! I should have expected it! What are you going to invent next? Bodie's voice showed his exasperation but in a somewhat subdued way. The shooting incident seemed to have had a moderating influence on his mood. He let Cowley relieve himself without further comment.

The circumstances weren't favourable towards action. Bodie had stepped aside a few yards to give him more privacy while lowering his gun, perhaps even looking away like the good-mannered young man he basically was, but still alert and wary, no doubt. And too far, anyway. Pondering all the possibilities, Cowley took his time.

“Is your prostate annoying you?” Not so well-mannered, after all. But there was a thin streak of good humour in the taunt. Cowley felt no anger; he had got an idea.

“Maybe. As you like to remind me, I'm no longer in my prime. And my leg isn't improving either, especially while rushing around on rocky ground.”

“Are you trying to soften me?”

It was precisely what Cowley intended, though without much hope. “Just saying I'm exhausted.”

“You'll rest when we're on the boat.”

Hopefully, a tad before: he smiled noncommittally.

Time was running short: soon they would reach the intersection between the hillside they were walking down and the flat path that led to the boat's location. On the boat, and especially while boarding, they would be at the right distance from each other to attempt a surprise attack but that would be excessively risky for a man in relatively poor physical condition, as Cowley was, whatever his fighting skills. He knew the place: going ahead, he had chosen this path over two other much easier ones. He had to make his move here, while they still were on uneven ground; seconds were ticketing in his head. Now? A few yards farther?

Actually things happened as he had planned, and where, but not when: the path had become steeper and more stony, very unstable in places, with gravel rolling and sliding under their shoes. As Cowley was still hesitating, the decision was forced upon him. Suddenly the ground gave way beneath his feet and he felt himself falling uncontrollably, swept away by the landslip.

The slope sank deeper. A rock was in the way. Cowley violently contorted his upper body to avoid it but failed. He braced himself for the crash. Instead he felt two strong arms around his waist and a pull backwards. The warning reached his ears a millisecond later:

“Hang on!”

Bodie had rushed to him with formidable speed. They fell together in a knot of limbs and packs, Cowley on top, Bodie beneath. Within a second Cowley had rolled aside, free and unharmed. Bodie lay still, impeded by his bag and winded, the gun he had dropped out of reach. Almost unthinkingly, Cowley slipped his hand in the lower pocket of his jacket and grasped the syringe. Bodie saw his move and tried to rise. He managed to get rid of the straps and to rest on his knees. The needle shot him in the neck. He shouted:

“You snake! I'll kill you!”

This time the dose was not enough to stop him instantly. He stood up and sprang, headlong. Closer to the gun, Cowley picked it up. His assailant was on him; he raised the gun and brought it down on Bodie's skull with full strength. The man collapsed, lifeless.

Cowley remained still for a little while, staring at the tall figure lying face down. The unseen face was pressed into the dirt. The dark head was bleeding profusely. So, Bodie had tried to rescue him finally. Well, that was the plan, the best and the worst he could have thought of. Nothing had been less sure at the time but, against all appearances, he had bet on Bodie's feelings to win and he had won. The victory didn't taste good, didn't bring the usual after-fight elation: it was necessary. He had to cling to this certainty.

He turned the limp body over and wiped the blood and the dirt off the soiled face with his handkerchief. Then he wiped the blood off his hands. So much blood for such a small wound. No need to look for a pulse: the man was visibly breathing. More or less steadily. Of course, that didn't say much about the severity of the injury but Cowley didn't want to think about it, not now, not as he was desperately looking for a way out of this predicament. He pondered. This time he had used half a dose: two hours sleep then, maybe a little more. Barely enough time to return to the boat and cross the loch back to the pier. But not alone. He had to ask for help: Angus, nobody else. He should still be at the farm, waiting for him to call through Bart. Yes, together, with a little luck, they might be able to carry the unconscious man down the last part of the slope and all the way to the bank. The farm was only a ten minutes walk from the foot of the hill, at a brisk pace. He took his RT.

He reached Angus directly, instead of Bart as he had expected. Ah, the sly old fox had brought his own RT with him without telling him so. Perfect, it will make things much simpler, especially since Bart had the same device at home.

Angus never needed much explanation, especially in situations of crisis but, as soon as he was free to speak, he loudly protested against the prospect of carrying an inert body for half a mile, even on the flatter and wider portion of the way.

“Don't be silly. Most of the dirt road, from the farm to the bank, is passable for vehicles. I'm going to borrow one from my friends. No problem: You have sprained your ankle and I have all my stuff at my place. They don't need to know more and they won't ask questions.”

That was reasonable, Cowley had to agree, though reluctantly. The risk of indiscretion was minimal, the gain of time substantial. Moreover, the excitement of action subsiding, he suddenly felt weak and, to his shame, a little shaky; his previous confidence draining with the receding flow of adrenaline.

Fifteen minutes later Angus was there, hardly a whiff out of breath after his hurried bout of climbing. “Car's at the junction below and, before you asked, they lent it to me without a question.” He put down a big box on a low rock, “With a first aid kit we must have the use of, though not for your ankle.” His gaze focused on the body lying on the ground; he whistled softly: “Wow, you did a proper job on him; he's out for the count!”

“What do you think?” Cowley said curtly, “it's not just a bang on the head; I used this first.”

Angus considered the small metal device with professional interest. “Ah, a stun dart? Much better than a simple syringe for wild animals...or wild humans. It works at very short range but it's enough to be safe.”

“Angus!”

“Don't be impatient, cousin; I'm going to check him thoroughly; we've plenty of time; he's not likely to wake up soon.”

“We don’t have plenty of time; I used half a dose this time. Plus, we have to take him downhill to the boat and I want to know his condition before manhandling him left right and centre without even a stretcher.”

“If you mean you want to be sure he hasn't got a concussion, well, I need him to be conscious to ascertain that. But I can get some indications from a first exam.”

Cowley entirely trusted his cousin in that respect; the man had never bothered to have his medical knowledge validated by a diploma, but he was nevertheless quite competent in the basics as well as in some - less mundane - areas. Having performed the promised check-up of the casualty and dressed his wound, Angus declared himself cautiously optimistic. He smiled:

“Be happy, son! You haven't killed him, it seems.”

“I'm not in the mood, Angus. What about that blow to the head?”

“I repeat, I cannot completely dismiss a concussion, but I think there's no danger in moving him carefully.” He rubbed his chin pensively, “the problem being I don't see any practical way to do it; as you noticed, we've no stretcher at our disposal.”

Cowley discarded the objection. “We can make one: Look at the stuff Bodie had with him: a sleeping bag, a tent and a lot of fishing wire.”

“Clever! Georgie my lad, you've earned your boy scout badge!”

Cowley glared at Angus. “Spare me your poor jokes and make you useful instead: I give you fifteen minutes to help me dismember the tent and reconstruct it into something we can use as a stretcher.”

Twenty minutes later the two men were bending over a thing with no recognizable shape, that no well-trained nurse in the world would have acknowledged as a proper medical appliance but that you could actually use as a stretcher...if sufficiently motivated.

Bodie, still unconscious, was slipped into the sleeping bag, and the bag strapped on the tarpaulin. The whole structure lacked a rigid frame and the roughly cobbled handles didn't award them the solid grip they needed to carry their heavy burden conveniently. Sometimes, in places where the ground was grassy, not rocky, they used the stretcher as a sled. There were bumps and holes all the same and the sporadic moans that issued from the reclining form under the wrap made Cowley wince.

“He's waking up,” Angus stated, “sooner than I thought, but we've still got enough time to reach the boat.”

They were at the foot of the hill, not far from the junction where Angus had left his borrowed vehicle. Carrying the stretcher to the spot, extracting Bodie from his makeshift straightjacket and settling him in the back seats of the car was just a matter of minutes, as was driving to the boat's location. However, dragging the boat from its cache to the water through bushes and branches offered more difficulties. Moving it with a body inside would have been simply impossible, let alone hauling the body into it first. It was necessary to lay the man on the the narrow shore and leave him alone while they were busy with their task. With a glance, Angus had confirmed he was very close to waking. The only precaution they could take was to bind Bodie's wrists behind his back to a low shrub. Which, while it would have been nothing for a Bodie in good shape, could be enough in his present diminished condition. Hopefully.

No launching of a boat into water was ever so hurried. Cowley felt exhausted and Angus was no better, both breathless and covered with scratches. When they returned to their prisoner, he was still tied up to the shrub but plainly awake. Angus went closer to unbind him and look for a possible concussion. He paused. The man was staring at him in obvious bewilderment. “Who are you?”

Suddenly alerted, Cowley brushed his cousin aside and squatted in front of Bodie. “Do you recognize me?”

“You? What are you doing here?”

“Bodie! Who am I? Do you remember?”

The confusion on the young man's face increased: “Yes, I remember you; you're Mr Cowley, George Cowley.”

That was a meagre relief. Cowley insisted: “Do you remember when we met first? And when?”

“Of course I remember. But what am I doing here? And you?”

“Bodie, just answer my question: “Where did you see me the first time?”

“Well, in my cell, with MacLaren; we were prisoners. Have you forgotten?”

“And the second time?”

“But...at the hospital; the military hospital.”

“And then?”

Bodie was trying hard to catch up. His efforts were almost painful to see. “I...don't know. It's possible I've seen you somewhere else, I don't know where. He closed his eyes. “But what am I doing here?”

“It’s a long story, Bodie.”

Angus sniggered: “And you just added quite a new chapter to it!”


	12. Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the start.

Out of the Dark  
Chapter Twelve

 

With a growl of impatience Cowley opened his second bottle of malt: that old Laphroig, gift from MacLaren, which he hadn't wanted to share with Bodie, saving it for future celebrations, or for future disasters, or just for colder nights. What remained in the first bottle after two weeks of very moderate consumption, he had drunk too fast while he played and replayed the film of the late events in his haunted mind. 

At first, everything had gone well. Angus had dressed Bodie's head wound with the first-aid kit he had brought from the farm. The young man had been quiet and silent, just sporadically uttering the same obssessive words “Where am I? What am I doing here? Who're you?” and getting the same appeasing and meaningless answer every time: “Don't worry, all's well, you'll be all-right” which he didn't seem to hear.

Cowley took a large swig of scotch, spread his legs in front of the fire-place and and sighed heavily, warmed and lulled by the blaze. Through half-closed eyelids, in the haze of exhaustion and alcohol, it was as he glimpsed the shimmering wavelets of the loch under the declining sun. He could not help but relive those fleeting moments when the situation had overturned. 

“I don't know about you,” Angus said, “but I could do with a beer and a sandwich.” 

“A bit early, isn't it? For you at least. A beer and a sandwich is all I got while you were having lunch at the farm and I am not complaining. Can't you wait till you get back? It's getting late.” 

“I don't see any reason to hurry now and we've got plenty of good food I don't want to waste.”

That was true: Angus had retrieved Bodie's supplies and had crammed them in his own back-pack. And there were four remaining cans of beer in the boat. As much as Cowley wanted to hasten his return, he couldn't find any sound objection to a pause for a short snack; Bodie needed the rest and, to be honest, he himself was positively starving. So they sat down, uncomfortably, on the narrow band of rough sand and shared the bread, cheese, ham, hard-boiled eggs and cold baked beans that had been intended for the fishing party, a thousand years ago it seemed. Bodie ate what he was offered, slowly and silently, though at some point he reached out for the can of beer that Angus was opening.

“Tut-tut, laddie; no alcohol for you. It would do you no good. I more than suspect a concussion.”

Cowley protested: “Come on, Angus! I didn't hit him that hard.”

“Hard enough to make him lose what was left of his memory.”

“He seems to remember the distant past quite well .”

“That remains to be verified. Anyway I will not take the responsibility of letting him drink beer.”

Bodie wordlessly accepted the canteen of tepid water handed out by the old man and fell back into his apathy, nibbling his sandwich with a painfully slowness. The “short snack” was dragging on and Cowley was losing patience.

“Wake up, man! I don't want to spend the night at this place.”

“And I don't want you to upset my patient.” Angus said sternly.

“ Ah bah, don't make such a fuss; a loss of memory isn't life-threatening. As you had noticed yourself, he fairly well overcame it the first time.”

“You shouldn't joke about this, George. The lad has got a concussion and you were holding the gun.”

“As if I had any choice!” Cowley hated the petulant tone he heard in his own voice. There was something about Angus, in his (affected) avuncular attitude, that brought him back to his chidhood, when the older man was for him some kind of an authority figure, whom he used to consider with awe. He had to recall that he had, until recently, exercised far more important functions than his cousin ever had and successfully confronted politicians and other men of power and influence. 

Whatever, he couldn't allow himself to feel guilt or worse, remorse: disturbing, unhealthy, dangerous.

Bodie has showed no attention to the exchange, or any interest in it. But suddenly he raised his head and blinked in the declining sun. He stared at a point somewhere up in the shrubbery. Following his gaze, Cowley caught sight of a reddish-tawny spot, which zoomed out at lightning speed to materialize as a big canine furball, landing in a last leap straight in Bodie's lap: Rover!

“Ah, that dog now; we really needed him! Thought you had forgotten him.”

“Rover, come here! Leave Bodie alone! Stupid animal. No, I hadn't forgotten him. I left him at the farm on purpose; I didn't want him on the boat. 

Bodie was stroking the dog absentmindedly while Rover, extatic, licked his face and hand. Angus pulled a face.

“Seems the matter is settled now.” He stated reluctantly. “We can't leave him wander in the bushes all night. There are sheep and cattle in the vicinity.” 

Cowley frowned. “I don't like this. The boat is not made for three men and a large dog.” He snorted: “A rambunctious large dog.”

“Don't fret. I'm able to control him.”

“If you say so.” 

“He likes Bodie. I'll have make him lie at his feet, and he'll behave”.

“Let's hope.” Cowley wasn't convinced but didn't insist. There was no alternative really.

Anyway when the trouble occurred, it wasn't the dog's fault: it was his master's. Or rather, it was his, his own fault, for having overlooked what he should never have.

 

To Cowley's mute surprise and Angus' vocal satisfaction the boarding was eventless. The dog behaved and the boat wasn't over-loaded for they had left most of their packs on the shore, with the intent of coming back to retrieve them later. So they started the engine and headed for the other side, a short crossing in still waters, on a sunny late afternoon.

Bodie remained withdrawn, as if absent from his surroundings, and deaf to any prompt to speak. Was it why Angus felt free to discuss his clinical case in front of him? Cowley wondered what he actually did hear or understand of their verbal exchanges.

“I must say, I'm beginning to feel a little worried about his condition, George. Have you ever seen him in that state before?”

“Yes, more or less, after the first injection, in the car. But he was not completely shut-in then; it was still possible to communicate.Yet, he'd had got a double dose for just one this time.”

“But he hadn't been hit on his head then.”

“As a matter of fact, yes, he had; I did a karate chop on him before delivering the stun-serum.” Cowley mused: “though maybe not as hard as with the gun. It was less of an emergency: he was handcuffed already.”

“Hmm. So, two blows on the head within a fortnight...”

“Sixteen days, exactly. Whatever, do you still think he's got a concussion?”

“Don't know, really. So far, I noticed no clear sign of it; all his basic reflexes seem to be normal.” He paused. “Of course only more thorough, in-depth medical examinations could give us the answer.”

“In hospital? I hope it won't be necessary.”

“Oh, there's no hurry. We can see to it later tomorrow, after we've all had a rest.”

“Things are not that simple, Angus. First I must talk to Willis; we have an agreement but I need to have it firmly confirmed before taking the lad to Glasgow to see a neurologist. And I foresee a lot of complications. The legal situation is dubious at best: a patient without an identity brought by a man with no family ties with him and no kind of authority whatsoever; that will be hard to pull off.”

“I see your point, cousin. However there is a place where you'll be asked no questions.”

“I know what you mean. I'd rather not.”

“Why not? They have the best specialists, with a prior knowledge of the case.”

“Precisely.” 

“Oh, everything will be different now MI6 is not in charge any longer. Personally I completely trust the regular staff at Repton.”

“Angus! Shut up!”

A feeling of impending doom had grabbed him suddenly. He stood up as Bodie rose from the bench, but not as swiftly. Rover was faster. Anticipating his master's order, the dog pounced on the young man's chest, preventing him from jumping overboard. Unbalanced, Bodie slipped and, as he fell, knocked down Angus who was steering. Of the struggle that ensued, Cowley didn't see much, as he was rushing to take hold of the helm. The boat had swivelled and was rocking dangerously. When he had regained control of it, he set about going to Angus' rescue but froze at the sight that met his eyes: the fight was over and the young man's body was lying on the deck, inanimate . Squatting beside him, Angus was checking his condition.

“Good Lord! What did you do to him?”

Angus was still out of breath, dishevelled and having lost his urbane manners. “What do you think? That I flattened your superman with my bare hands? I used your stun-gadget, of course.”

It was at this point that Cowley remembered he hadn't retrieved the device from Angus' hands.

“And it came in really handy. Just glad I managed to pull it out of my pocket while wrestling with that madman.”

“What were you thinking of, mentioning Repton in front of Bodie that way, for God's sake?”

“I may have underestimated his vigilance.” Angus admitted, somewhat sheepishly.

“And his comprehension as well! Didn't you realise what Repton would mean to him?”

“I assumed he'd lost all memories of recent events and only retrieved the ones of what happened before his admission in Repton.”

“You assumed wrongly.”

“OK, I admit it wasn't very wise of me; I was incautious somehow; is that you want me to say?”

“At the very least. Have you forgotten what I told you? He wasn't amnesic before all the drugging and electric shocks he got from the MI6 shrinks.”

“You hadn't specified at which stage it occurred. Anyway, don't you find we've more urgent things to do than bickering about my shortcomings?”

That was indisputable. Cowley bit his lip and swallowed his anger, perfectly aware he mostly was angry at himself: How could he have so imprudently let his cousin keep the damned thing with him?

“How is he?”

“Unconscious.”

“That I can see, Angus! Seriously, how bad is his present condition?”

“Not worse than before, as far as I can tell. Just deeply asleep. For a few hours; how many I don't know, but there must be some additional effect from the intake of two doses within a short span of time.”

“Great. And now, do you feel up to carrying him on your back to the lodge, up the slope?”

Angus made a face. “That's a problem indeed. I'll call Bart. He must be able to make a stretcher. He used to work in the infirmary for some time during the war.”

And so did he while Cowley called the pilot to tell him he was not needed any longer, without giving any more precision. He would talk to Willis later. There was no hurry. He didn't trust the man a bit but did trust his sense of self interest: he wouldn't break their agreement as long as he thought that Cowley was able and willing to help him hide his failure from his superiors.

When Bart arrived, over an hour later, he was flanked by Martha. And her assistance surely wasn't a luxury given the bulk of the gear they carried.

“My Goodness, Bart! Did you actually dismember a bed?”

“Not exactly, sir. I used the old camp-bed. It's not damaged. I just strengthened it with wood slats from a broken bed-base I found in the attic.”

“I can smell it. Why did you bother? The way the cot is hinged, it could be adapted just with straps.

“Not strong enough for this purpose. It's a big lad we've got here.”

“Just tell me you didn't want to spoil your military equipment. I don't like your contraption very much: it looks awkward and heavy.”

“Martha is here to help.”

“Bart, you should be ashamed of yourself for dragging a lady in this predicament.”

“I am no lady,” Martha asserted firmly.

And she had the last word. 

 

Cowley rose from his chair uneasily, made two wobbling steps forward and had to lean on the table's edge. Straightening himself, he got closer to the bunk by the fireplace, where Bodie was lying, still deep asleep though shivering and, at times, moaning feebly. He sat down cautiously on the cot placed alongside, which was nothing else than the tinkered camp-bed they'd used to carry the young man up to the lodge, now stripped of its appendages and props to be returned to its primary use. Blurred visions from the previous hours filtered through a screen of alcohol and pain.

 

In spite of a much better stretcher this time, let alone the not insignificant help of Martha, climbing up the steep path through the woods had been excruciating for Cowley, whose bad leg had started to protest again, more and more loudly. Angus' pills seemed to have lost their power eventually and, just past the doorway, he had collapsed on the first available seat.

Angus looked almost as drained. He had mumbled something inaudible about romps that were no longer for his age. And Angus mentioning his age was well worth noticing. Bart was no better. The only two members of the rescue squad in comparatively good shape were Rover and Martha. The big dog stood guard at the bedside, seriously hampering his master in his attempted task, to perform a thorough check-up of the patient, while Martha was busy making sandwiches with what she had found in the fridge.

They had a quick snack together; Cowley got a new knee dressing from Angus, who unfairly exploited his weakness to make him take the cursed potion for the last time (“Look, George, it's just what you need, to recover your nerves after that exertion”). He was too numb to mind.

After that, they didn't linger. Angus wanted to clarify the situation though.

“What's your stand with Willis, exactly?”

“We have a truce. For about 36 hours from now, more or less. Within that span of time, I have a free hand, until the fugitive is caught. Then things will be negotiable.”

“Till we have to tell him he's caught, you mean. That gives us some time. Do you trust him to keep his word?”

“Not in the least, unless it's in his own interest.” 

“Which is the case now?”

“I hope so. I banked on it.”

“I see. Methinks we ought to ensure his non-intervention for as long as it's possible.”

“I'll call him tomorrow morning, to keep him quiet; I can hardly delay it more. But God knows what I am going to say.” Cowley's senses had started to reel. He was hardly able to think and happy for once that Angus had taken charge.

Angus didn't disappoint him. “Don't. I'll do. He might trust me a bit more than you. I'll tell him we have just located the man and are attempting to get him into a talk.”

“While using their own RT?”

“By using my frequencies. With luck, he won't bother to scan our communications. At least not before the agreed time.”

With luck, yes. Unless he bothered. Cowley wondered if, on the contrary, Angus' plan wasn't the best way of attracting the bastard's attention but he was in no condition to argue. And he knew his cousin's diplomatic talent. So he wished his cousin good luck and good night, and the trio departed, leaving Rover as bodyguard, against Cowley's better judgment. 

The dog was decidedly a little too affectionate towards his new human friend and kept on licking whatever spot of bare skin he could reach, whimpering relentless and chewing the fringed rim of the thin blanket covering the sleeper, pulling on it till it slid down to the floor. Rover was nothing if not stubborn, and assuredly not a model of obedience when his master wasn't present. To get rid of him and his clumsy solicitude Cowley had to catch him by the collar and drag him out to the woodshed, with all the amount of remaining strength and balance he could muster. Which was not much.

Just enough to go back to the room and slump on a chair by the table to grab the bottle. Feeling a sudden chill creeping along his spine, he poured himself half a tumbler of whisky and swigged it whole in a few hasty gulps. The chill persisted. With a sigh and a mumbled curse he got up to feed the fire a few logs, then picked up the blanket and set himself to mend the mess of the bedding with a warmer plaid and a cushion. Bending over the body lying on the low bunk was straining his back and his leg at the same time. Fortunately his liquid pain-killer was more effective than Angus' potions. He used it liberally. 

It wasn't easy to rest on that hard and rickety cot. He changed for a chair but remained close to the bunk. He wondered why he felt obliged to keep watch; Angus had reassessed the young man's condition, dismissing the concussion eventually, and stated it was fine. More or less. At least not worrying. But do you need solid reasons to worry? Besides, Bodie didn't look fine: ash-pale and drawn, his breathing short and raspy, he reminded Cowley of the poor wretch of a man he had rescued from Repton two weeks ago. 

So, that was it? Back to the point they started from? With the added bonus of Bodie's recovered memory, which was by no means a true blessing in his current predicament. Sure, it might spare him a second stay at Repton (where Angus had his entries and Cowley could manage to keep some control over Harrington) but Willis would never let him go free if he had the least hope of getting some valuable intelligence from him.

Well, wasn't it what he himself had pursued since the beginning? Information against freedom: such was the deal he had offered the man, with Angus as witness. He remembered his own words: “Those were the conditions for your release, and for my protection”. And, even more keenly, he could hear Bodie's bitter retort: “And who's going to protect me from you?” He tried not to recall his fateful promise, which sounded so much as an oath: “I give you my word: be faithful to me and I won't let you down, whatever happens.”

Words of promise. How light and easy they fly from the mouth, how deep and heavy they burden the memory, how sharp and fierce they sear the heart of the trespasser. “The human heart is deceitful above all things and desperately wicked”. His father's favourite quotation. Where did he take it from? Jeremiah? The Ecclesiastes? 

Whatever. Had he had the strength and willpower to get up from his seat and walk to the bedroom, to retrieve the old Bible that should still be on the highest shelf of the cupboard, he wasn't in the proper disposition to seek any solace from the lessons of the Holy Scriptures; those were not circumstances in which a stern Presbyterian upbringing could be of any help to soothe a sore moral conscience, if there ever were such in his life.

The Islay beverage was a more appropriate medication. He didn't spare it until the bottle was emptied. Then he collapsed on the cot.

 

End of Chapter 12


	13. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was it a dream?

When he awoke, hours later, Cowley was in his bed and Rover was licking his hand. The dog shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be there. But there he was: sweaty, heart pounding, mind confused. He couldn't figure how he had made it to the bedroom, much less how he had undressed. He was naked, tangled in a shambles of entwined blankets and smelly sheets. His head ached, his leg ached, his back concurred. He groaned and Rover whined in a high pitched wail.

“Gerrof!” he croaked feebly, waving at the dog, “out!” and amazingly the dog obeyed.

Disentangling himself took time and cost him his last reserve of strength. He felt drained. For a while he remained completely motionless, trying to recover his wits. All he could gather were snatches of blurry images, fleeting but sharp sensations, snippets of dreams that worryingly looked like memories. Staying aware was hard enough, he had no wish to remember, didn't want to think, wouldn't dare to guess. Sleep was promise of oblivion and oblivion was peace. It was hardly dawn. He surrendered.

First he had sunk in a dumb, heavy sleep but, at times, when he emerged from his slumber for a few minutes, he recalled more acutely episodes of the dream he had earlier in the night. Some parts were painfully clear, others remained hazy.

 

Where he was then, it was not dawn but dusk. A full moon poured a pallid light on the surroundings. He was walking briskly along the winding path that led from the seaport to the old town. It was odd not to feel any pain in his leg. The streets he crossed, normally so lively and busy at night, were deserted and silent and all he could see were high grey walls with slit-like windows and the iron shutters of closed shops. Not a passer-by, not a car, not even a prowling cat. As if a curfew had fallen on the city. He didn't know why. All he knew was that he had to get in touch with a man at the “Sailor's Home”, who could provide him with a vital information. Or so he had been told by his contact in a bar earlier in the day. His mind was focused on that single aim: getting to the place, finding a man who knew another man. Which was the traitor. Who had killed his partner. None had a name.

Soon he was at the door, banging the antique lion-head shaped knocker. An old man came, whose face looked familiar though he couldn't remember where and when he had ever met him. He let him in wordlessly and headed to a dim corridor, not checking whether he was followed. When the man turned round to face him, he recognized Bart.

“Bart! You here? Where's Angus?”

“In the sitting room. He’s expecting you.”

They entered a vast room, poorly lit by candles, where broad velvet sofas of a lurid crimson were occupied by odd couples: young men in prim white garb with older men in dark suits. They were absorbed in their private conversations and didn't seem to notice the newcomers. Finely crafted copper incense burners hanging here and there filled the air with their fragrant fumes. It was stifling and made his head spin. He let himself drop into a free armchair, feeling queasy. He shut his eyes.

When he opened them again, Angus was sitting in front of him and, standing by his side, like an ominous black shadow, an unknown man, tall and lean, with a dour face. He wasn't introduced to him by his name but there was no doubt in his mind: he was the one he was meant to meet there, the informer, the go-between.

He asked awkward questions, not getting answers other than evasive and polite, the meaningless small talk. Angus didn't help. After the stranger's departure he just said: “Yes. He knows everything but everything has a price.”

“I'll pay.”

“Later.” It was infuriating. Angus patted him on the shoulder. “You look sick and you're tired. You cannot leave now because of the curfew. We have spare rooms here, lots of them.”

Upstairs they passed several empty rooms. Angus vanished in one of them. Slightly abashed, he opened the door of a bedroom nearby and shut it again in haste. In the bed there were two naked men: one was the dark stranger, the other a young lad with short black hair, broad shoulders and exquisitely curved pale buttocks.

This felt strangely familiar. He knew this young man, he was certain, though his face was resting on the other man's chest and all he could see was his bare backside and his hair. He had watched, lived, a similar scene a long time ago, where? Maybe here, in this brothel, maybe as a customer; this idea filled him with shame. But how sweet and delectable it would be to lie in that bed with a male companion of that age and beauty, so wantonly spread across his chest and belly!

The blend of lust and guilt makes the most inebriating of beverages, he found out. He felt light-headed and dizzy. Becoming more and more confused he wandered in a maze of corridors and empty rooms, climbing up and down stairways and steps, to eventually find himself back at his starting point.

And then the lights went out. A door opened. There was a cold draft and the flooring creaked. A rush in the dark. He was surrounded. A dagger hit him in the back. He screamed: "Bodie!"

 

"Bodie !"

There was a moment of floating uncertainty. It lasted, a short while.

"Bodie ?"

"Just call me Andrew."

The young stranger was looking at him amicably. He was alone. "Don't move."

Skilled hands searched him gently. He felt no pain. Strange.  "I was stabbed."

"There is no blood ." The hands were moving across his shoulder-blades and collarbones. "Just a big bruise." The young man whistled softly. "The blade must have slid on your holster."

He didn't remember carrying a gun. "Those men ..."

"They are gone . Thank my associate for that."

The tall, dour faced man, the boy's bed companion, the man who knew everything; friend or foe ? Angus would know. Where was Angus now ?

He tried to get up but fell back, in utter impotence.

Wordlessly, the other man lifted him in his arms and carried him in a nearby bedroom. It was dark, cool and quiet. Somewhere a dog was barking. He sank again.

 

Now he was in a bed and a dog was still barking somewhere. A strong, warm body was lying along his own, pressing heavily against his left side, an arm slung over his chest. Naked. They were both naked. It felt nice. It felt wonderful.

Yet something was very odd. He mumbled "What is this place ?"

The young stranger shifted his position, raising himself a bit to look at him from above. "Your bedroom."

He recalled dim corridors, a fight in the dark. "So, what am I doing here ?"

"You passed out; I brought you here."

But where is 'here'? This was worrying.  "Who are you ?"

"You know who I am."

"No I don't. Only the other man; and not even his name."

"I don't understand."

"You rescued me from the muggers, didn't you ?"

"You're not making sense. Shut up !" And he kissed him.

He shut his eyes and enjoyed the kiss, although less than the groping that came with it. When he opened them again, it was – definitely – Bodie.

Too late for thinking twice. Blood was running fast in his veins, of its own free will, rushing down to its goal of flesh with purpose and finality.

If only his mind could be as focused. It was as if his brain had been disconnected, consciousness diluted in a cloud of scattered sensations. But something rooted deep in him was yearning to be back in control; a request the other man seemed not to be willing to grant: his every gesture was knowing, deft, and meant to give pleasure but didn't leave any room for sharing. He was performing a well-practised part, playing on his nerves, with all too much effectiveness. It would be so easy to surrender and just yield to the offered delights...

No ! Arching his back, he reared up and pushed forward, breaking the embrace. The man let go and laughed : "You want it rough ? Fine with me." And he toppled him down, back on the bed, covering him with the whole length of his body and rubbing against him with too much force to be pleasurable. He was held tight and hard, as in a vice-like grip. There was little he could do in his state of drunken debilitation. Or so he told himself, only half-deluded. For a while anger and shame fought with lust. Anger won. He snapped: “Get off me, man!”

As suddenly as he had started, the young miscreant stopped, still laughing. "You don't like it rough that much, eh?" And he kissed him again. Softly.

This time he responded with gusto, grabbing the other firmly by the shoulders and deepening the kiss. Seconds lengthened into minutes. Gasping for air, the lad loosened his hold, enough to give him some freedom of movement. He slipped out of the lock, rolled over and reversed the position.

And then, in a blink, the rules of the game changed; now he was the man in charge; he was the one who called the shots, making love to a responsive but surprisingly pliant partner. Which was squirming and babbling happily, like the kid he still was.

He was now fully hard, heart-pounding wildly, acutely aware of their two bodies squeezed together and melting in the same scalding mortar. So, this is how it feels to be young again, strong again, whole again?

It wasn't true, couldn't be real: it had to be a dream, the most vivid, the most voluptuous of all the sex-driven dreams he ever had in his mostly celibate, severely repressed life.

Whatever. He didn't want to wake up, he didn't want to know anything but the rush of blood in his veins, the feel of his nerve-endings swelling up from second to second, and the fierce expectancy of a brain-blowing climax.

When it occurred there was no question left to ask. The loss of consciousness was near complete. Hardly a hint of an afterglow throb. And from it, he drifted to a deep dreamless slumber.

Everything was dark, cool and quiet again.

 

Two hours later ...

It was a rude awakening; in truth, nastier than the first time, as if the effects of his intoxication had been slow to reach their full bloom. Nothing like a glorious Spring sunbeam sneaking under sticky eyelids to bring you back to life from a near-comatose stupor, through the worst hangover you ever had. The headache was awful. Cowley struggled to sit up straight, bracing himself on the mattress with great pain, to lift his limp upper body from its supine position on the bed. Never, since he'd got his old leg wound, had his limbs felt to him so heavy and lame. Eventually, propped on the pillows and the bed-head, he stayed there motionless a long while, striving to gather his wits and memories. The former were foggy and the latter patchy and disjointed. And they became more so with every passing minute.

In a way it was a relief. For a moment he had almost believed in the reality of his remembrances. But it couldn't be. They had not the clarity and certainty of a lived experience. And though it was humiliating to have a wet dream at his age, especially for a man of his character, it was the most acceptable explanation and the least threatening for the future.

The future ... He suddenly realised he hadn't taken any precautions to prevent the man from running away, aside from locking the door, which was not very effective with someone like Bodie. He had been too drunk to think of anything safer. He still had no idea how he had been able to reach his bedroom. In fact, the man might very well be gone already.

That thought caught him with a dreadful acuity, giving him the nervous strength he needed to get out of his bed. Or, at least, to try. Teetering and clutching at everything he could find solid and vertical at hand, he staggered toward the door. From there he had a partial view of the main room while still remaining out of sight.

He could see the bunk, close to the fireplace, and at first, he thought there was a sort of dummy lying on it; well, he expected it. But no, it was just a heap of sheets and blankets roughly rolled up around a cushion and left on the spot carelessly, not on purpose. The boy was still there, sitting at the table in the old Angus' gown and sipping a cup of tea placidly. His casual bearing didn't show he had the least intention of leaving the place any time soon: There were boiled eggs and several slices of buttered bread, a jug of honey and a bowl of porridge in front of him. Nothing greasy, fried and odorous, thanks for little mercies.

Actually the only odorous thing on the place was his own body. Smelly wasn't even starting to describe it: it offered a mix of stale sweat, stinky feet and foul breath, with something else, rank and pungent, that he preferred not to name. He felt dirty. He felt sick.

The bathroom was just two steps away, across the narrow corridor. He rushed into it and locked the door. Saved!

The lad had left it a mess but it didn't matter. There was still plenty of hot water, soap and clean towels on the shelf, all he needed for the most thorough cleaning he could perform in his condition. Sitting on the same rickety stool of old, he scrubbed every inch of his skin with a punishing vigour, washing out, with the suds and the grime, the last remains of his shame, of his sins and of his dreams.

 


End file.
